


Under the Radar

by Jolie_Black



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action, Angst, Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft IS the British Government, Screenplay/Script Format, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Suspense, extra episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-07 13:23:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3174820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jolie_Black/pseuds/Jolie_Black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3130853/chapters/6785798">The Three Students</a>.</p><p>Fifteen years after the events of “The Three Students”, London is under threat, a ghost from the past reappears, and at the instigation of the British Government, Sherlock and John set out to fight a battle they can't win.</p><p>Gen fic; no pairings.<br/>Rated M for violence and language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The message

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set about a year after the events concluding “His Last Vow”. 
> 
> It is a sequel to [The Three Students](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3130853/chapters/6785798) in the strict sense that I'm afraid you will have to read that one first to understand who some of the characters in this story are, what their relationship is, and what drives them. 
> 
> We're done with violins and cheating at exams now though. This is guns and dead bodies. 
> 
> I have taken the liberty of ignoring the as yet unresolved issue of Mary Watson and the baby. You’re free to imagine whatever you like - that they died tragically; that Mary turned out to be evil after all and left John, taking the baby with her; or that they’ve simply gone down to Janine’s in Sussex for a short holiday without John - as long as the result is that Sherlock and John are back together in 221B Baker Street for the time being. 
> 
> If you’ve never heard of the hacker group “Anonymous”, or know only little of their aims and activities and the symbols they use, you may want to read the Wikipedia article on them before reading this story.

* * *

 

 _**Baker Street, London** _ _**,** _ _on a chilly morning in November._ _Joh_ _n Watson, wearing his usual black jacket, is walking purposefully along the pavement towards the door of No. 221B, lets himself inside, crosses the quiet hall and makes straight for the stairs. He ascends them in a hurry, two steps at a time, turns on the landing, comes out on the first floor and makes straight for the open door of the living room. In the living room, Sherlock in his dark suit - or a man who looks very much like him - is sitting at a computer with his back to the door. He hears John entering the room and turns round in his chair. John jumps almost out of his skin. The man at the table is wearing a garish yellow moustached smiling Guy Fawkes mask._

GUY FAWKES: Hello, John.

JOHN: Jesus.

_Guy Fawkes pushes his mask up into his hair, and Sherlock’s real face emerges from under it, grinning almost as broadly as his artificial counterpart._

JOHN: Just how many secret lives that I know nothing about do you have?

SHERLOCK: No more than six or seven.

_He disentangles the mask and the elastic strap that held it up from his hair and puts it down on the table._

JOHN _(pointing)_ _:_ And that is not my computer again, is it?

SHERLOCK _(innocently):_ “Again”? And no, it’s not.

_John walks closer to the table and takes a look to make absolutely sure, then shrugs._

JOHN: And what exactly is the point of hacking your own computer?

SHERLOCK: I’m not hacking it. Just doing a bit of research. _(Nodding towards the mask)_ Trying to see the world through their eyes.

JOHN _(slightly alarmed_ _):_ And succeeding?

SHERLOCK: Moderately, at best. Those masks limit your field of vision rather dramatically.

JOHN: And how come you’re suddenly taking an interest in cyber terrorism?

SHERLOCK: I forbear from making the obvious rejoinder. 

JOHN: Ah. Going well?

SHERLOCK: Not going at all, so far. Mycroft called just after you went out and asked me to join him at Thames House at eleven. There’s something relating to this _(nodding at the mask again)_ that he wants me to look at. That's all I know.

_John glances at his watch. It is at ten past eleven._

JOHN: But then you had another call offering you an alternative form of entertainment for this morning, so you didn’t go. No, I'll correct that to “you’re not decided yet”. But the other one seems rather more tempting at the moment, doesn’t it?

_Sherlock stares at John, unable to believe what he has just heard. John grins, shamelessly enjoying his moment of triumph. Unfortunately, it lasts for all of three seconds._

SHERLOCK: Lestrade called you as well.

JOHN: Of course. Wanted to know what was keeping you. And I must say I agree. A body of an unidentified man with his throat cut and his head bashed in seems a lot more interesting than some idiots in masks trying to save the world.

SHERLOCK _(feigning surprise):_ You don’t want to meet any of Mycroft’s charming colleagues?

JOHN _(appalled)_ : Oh, thanks, no. I’ll take the battered corpse in the morgue, any time.

SHERLOCK _(standing up):_ Come on, John. Business before pleasure. First Mycroft and his cronies, then the morgue, alright? _(Imploringly)_ Please don’t leave me alone with those people. It becomes physically painful when there are three or more of them gathered in the same room.

JOHN: Such a big affair?

SHERLOCK: Apparently, yes.

JOHN _(generously)_ : Alright.

_Sherlock smiles, gets his coat from the hook behind the door and puts it on, then walks back to the table to switch off the computer and get his phone. He picks up the Guy Fawkes mask and holds it up._

SHERLOCK: D’you think I should wear that? Give them all a little fright? _(Seeing John’s expression)_ OK. Maybe not.

 

* * *

 

 _**A grainy video image** _ _of four men sitting in a row, facing the camera. They all wear identical Guy Fawkes masks of the same kind that we saw on Sherlock's face earlier, and identical black hoodies with a white image of a headless man in a suit printed on them. The second man from the right is the only one who has his hood up. The man on the left is speaking through the mask in deep-voiced, guttural Russian. We hear his voice in the slightly tinny quality of a laptop loudspeaker. After about twenty seconds, by the display at the bottom of the screen, the man falls silent, and the next man in the row speaks up in the same language._

JOHN _(off-screen)_ : What are they saying?

YOUNG MAN'S VOICE _(off-screen):_ Some of it is just waxing lyrical about their long-term aims, but what they’re saying specifically is that they’re going to take down the entire CCTV system in central London bit by bit, just to show that they can. _(The sound of some computer keys being hit.)_ I’ll switch the subtitles on.

SHERLOCK _(off-screen)_ _:_ No, don’t. It’s distracting.

YOUNG MAN'S VOICE _(off-screen)_ _:_ Here’s a transcript.

JOHN _(off-screen)_ _:_ Thanks.

_Meanwhile, the video has played on. The third man in the row – the one with the hood up – is now adding some lines of his own to the message. By his voice, he's a younger man than either of the other two. Then it is the last man on the right’s turn, who confines himself to only a couple of words. Incongruously, he speaks in a very high voice, although he appears to be the tallest and heaviest of the four. Then the video freezes, and we zoom out of the image and realise that we're actually in -_

_**Thames House – the headquarters of the Security Service, also known as MI5.** _ _**A conference room,** _ _furnished in a modern but completely nondescript style, very functional and sterile. A long narrow table with two rows of empty chairs on either side. At the end of the table, a young man with a lot of gel in his spiky hair is seated in front of a large laptop, on the screen of which we can see the closing image of the video with the four masked men. A neat stack of files with blank covers has been placed to the left of the computer. Standing in a semi-circle behind the young man at the laptop, all with their eyes fixed on the screen, are five more men - in the centre, Mycroft Holmes, as usual in an impeccably elegant three piece suit; next to him on his right Sherlock, with his hands buried in the pockets of his open coat; then John, with a stapled-together printout in his hands; at Mycroft’s other side, a man about his own age who appears to be entirely colourless - sand-coloured suit, sand-coloured hair, exactly parted, even his skin sand-coloured; and beyond him, another unknown face, an overweight, grey-haired man beyond fifty who looks like a perpetually discontent older version of Mike Stamford. By their bearing and manner, both these men are used to being in authority and to having their authority acknowledged. The young man at the computer – obviously a technician, by his age and the fact that unlike the other secret service men, he wears no suit - glances up at the overweight official, who appears to be his superior._

IT TECHNICIAN: Shall I replay it straight away, sir?

_The elderly man exchanges a look with Mycroft. Mycroft turns to Sherlock._

MYCROFT: Well?

SHERLOCK: Well what? _(Without taking his hands out of his pockets, he nods at the stack of files on the table.)_ What exactly do you expect me to tell you that isn’t already in there?

MYCROFT: There is a good deal of information in there, but not all that we need. Both the gentleman from the Security Service _(inclining his head slightly towards the sand-coloured official)_ and the gentleman from the Government Communications Headquarters _(nodding towards the overweight man)_ would be grateful for any further insights that might happen to come your way.

_Both the MI5 man and the GCHQ man look doubtful rather than expectant, and certainly not grateful for anything just yet. It is clear that inviting Sherlock and John to this meeting was not their idea._

MI5 MAN _(importantly)_ : A message like this, with the actual authors visible on screen as well as their own voices being audible, is extremely rare, and a heaven-sent opportunity for us. _(With a somewhat reproachful glance at Mycroft)_ We have already taken this sequence to pieces in the most technically elaborate manner known to our experts.

GCHQ MAN _(with only thinly veiled jealousy):_ Not to mention the effort that our linguists have put into identifying the authors.

SHERLOCK: It may look like it to you, but I don’t suppose _those_ gentlemen _(nodding at the screen)_ usually regard themselves as messengers sent from above to facilitate the work of our secret services. _(To Mycroft)_ I hope you’ve ruled out the possibility that the whole thing is a hoax, or even a red herring?

MYCROFT _(curtly):_ We have.

_Sherlock nods, apparently content with the answer. He puts his head to one side and takes a closer look at the files. In close-up, the stack can be seen to consist of four folders, two of which are bulging, one of which is about a third the size of the first two, and one which is so thin that it seems to consist of little more than the covers._

SHERLOCK _(to the room at large):_ Well, since you obviously already know all you need to know about two of them, and a good deal about the third, I would appreciate it if you could stop wasting any more of my time and start being a little more specific about your knowledge gaps.

_The MI5 man glances up at the clock on the wall, which is at twenty to twelve, and exchanges an indignant look with his colleague from the GCHQ._

SHERLOCK _(to Mycroft):_ Tell me what they've got, and then tell me why you can't give them the rest of it yourself, and then, I hope, I can go and have lunch.

MYCROFT _(irritably):_ I was just about to do that. _(To the technician)_ Would you replay it, please? _(The technician obliges. When the video reaches the point where the first man stops speaking and the second is about to begin - )_ And pause it there, please. _(To Sherlock)_ This first one goes by the nom-de-guerre of Arbo, and he's all over the place. A virtual celebrity, in those circles. Sony, Paypal, Mastercard, Visa, Bank of America - you name it, he was part of it. He's been active in those masks since they first put them on, and he’s been giving us major headaches ever since. Corporations are his favourite targets, very closely followed by both military and civil institutions in the U.S. He operates exclusively from Russia. He's an ideologist – this message is surprisingly calm and factual, compared to the usual tone of his tweets and other utterances. He can be quite a preachy hatemonger. An international arrest warrant was issued against him in 2010, and it's still waiting to be executed. _(To the technician)_ The second one, please.

_The video continues with the second man's part of the message. The MI5 man picks up one of the bulging files, opens it and glances at a memo in it to refresh his memory, then puts it down again._

MI5 MAN: This one calls himself Yevgeny, which is very likely his real name. If he is who we think he is, he started his professional life in a signal unit in the Soviet Army, just before it stopped being the Soviet Army. He rose through the ranks and had reached Captain by the time he was discharged, at his own wish, in 2009. He had quite a reputation within the Russian military, not only for his technical skills. He is a veteran of both Chechen wars, and if rumours are to be believed, he was never exactly of the squeamish sort.

_The technician has stopped the video at the end of Yevgeny’s part of the message to allow the MI5 man to complete his account._

MI5 MAN: Ever since his discharge, he has shifted his existence almost entirely to the virtual realm. There are traces of his involvement in almost any major cyber attack that has come out of Russia since. But so far, there haven't been any strong links with this particular group. It's the first time he seems to be after something other than money. Arbo may be a believer, but Yevgeny is a mercenary.

JOHN: There’s something I don’t understand.

_The secret service men (apart from the technician) turn towards John as if they have just noticed him for the first time, which may well be the case._

JOHN: They’re announcing a cyber attack on London. Why don’t they do it in English?

_Both the MI5 man and the GCHQ man frown._

MI5 MAN _(to his GCHQ colleague)_ : That is a legitimate question, actually.

_John visibly restrains himself from rolling his eyes._

GCHQ MAN _(dismissively):_ Their accents would probably be too atrocious to understand a word they’re saying.

_Sherlock, whose eyes have been on the computer screen until now, glances up at the GCHQ man, but refrains from commenting. The GCHQ man picks up the middle-sized file. He taps the technician on the shoulder to signal to him to continue the video. The technician obliges._

GCHQ MAN: Now, number three. This one is known as Kareem, but in spite of the Arabic name we think he’s a native speaker of Russian, too, although he’s proving tricky to trace regionally. Very few distinctive features in his speech. Very textbook.

MI5 MAN: Russian expat?

MYCROFT: Or very well-educated.

SHERLOCK: What's his record?

GCHQ MAN: As far as that word is appropriate in this context, he seems to be the decent one of the bunch. He surfaced at the beginning of the Arab Spring, in 2011, when he and some others of his masked friends provided massive technical support to the Tunisian opposition. The Occupy Wall Street movement also owes him a debt of gratitude for technical assistance. He came too late to the show for any substantial activities against Scientology, but whatever they've done to annoy them since 2011 is mainly due to him. He’s also managed to crash quite a number of child porn sites. He's not a great friend of the big corporations either, although his personal favourites are definitely the IT security companies. He loves playing havoc with those. We know next to nothing about his real identity, I’m afraid. For the past year or so, he has been operating from Russia, like the other two. Before that - very hard to tell.

IT TECHNICIAN _(over his shoulder, with grudging respect):_ He could run IP spoofing master classes, that one. Probably does.

_The GCHQ man frowns at his subordinate for daring to open his mouth without being asked. Sherlock frowns at the GCHQ man._

SHERLOCK _(holding out his hand for the file):_ May I?

_The GCHQ man hesitates, and the MI5 man makes a move forward as if to physically block Sherlock from even so much as touching the cover. Mycroft smiles sourly._

MYCROFT _(to Sherlock):_ Yes, I believe there is such a thing as protocol. Let's not get the GCHQ in trouble for providing unrestricted access to classified information to _-_

SHERLOCK: - casual bystanders?

_Mycroft gives his brother a disapproving look. The GCHQ man clears his throat._

GCHQ MAN: Well, as for the fourth -

SHERLOCK: - I can see from here that that file is empty.

_The GCHQ man and the MI5 man exchange another look._

MI5 MAN _(to Sherlock, rather unwillingly):_ Indeed, yes. That one's the only real Anonymous, so to speak.

GCHQ MAN: He isn't named in the message, we haven't seen him before, in short we know nothing about him.

SHERLOCK _(in a tone of disbelief): “_ Nothing”?

GCHQ MAN _(rather offended):_ Rest assured, Mr Holmes, that our analysts have done their best. We take him to be a native speaker of a Slavic language other than Russian, in his early or mid twenties – _(self-consciously)_ overweight, obviously –

SHERLOCK: Which makes him quite unique...

GCHQ MAN _(with a visible effort to stay polite):_ If you can think of anything useful to add - ?

SHERLOCK: Such as the fact that he's Czech, to start with?

MYCROFT _(drily):_ Slovak.

SHERLOCK: Czech.

MYCROFT: Born and raised in the Czech republic, but by a Slovak mother.

SHERLOCK: Agreed.

MYCROFT: You’re not in top form.

_Sherlock scowls._

MYCROFT: Come on. Do better on the other one.

SHERLOCK: Who, the one that calls himself Kareem? _(To the MI5 man)_ I thought it was all in the file?

MI5 MAN _(completely missing the sarcasm):_ No, a physical description is still lacking, and it might prove helpful.

SHERLOCK _(with a shrug):_ Alright.

_The GCHQ man nods to the technician. The technician glances at Sherlock._

SHERLOCK: The whole thing, yes. But you can switch the sound off. I've heard enough about no borders, no laws, love, peace and the brotherhood of man.

_The technician replays the sequence with the sound off. Sherlock is watching it with his head to one side, his eyes fixed on the man in the hood._

SHERLOCK _(speaking along with the video):_ Not much there, really. Very lightly built... if it wasn’t for the voice, it might even be a woman. Used to suffer from asthma as a child, but has grown out of it now... short-sighted, contact lenses. Vegetarian... but that’s about it. _(T_ o _the MI5 man, with glaring insincerity)_ Sorry.

_The MI5 man gapes at Sherlock._

MYCROFT _(to Sherlock)_ : You're definitely not in top form.

_The MI5 man gapes at Mycroft._

SHERLOCK _(to Mycroft):_ It’s not that. It’s lack of incentive. I still fail to see what I’m doing here. You could tell them the exact same things.

MYCROFT _(pointedly):_ You are here because these four men have apparently started doing exactly what they announced in the video, and we would like to stop them.

SHERLOCK: And what gives you the idea that I'm the person to stop a concerted hacker attack on your CCTV system?

MYCROFT: You have a reputation for being able to find people who don't want to be found.

SHERLOCK: I decline. Russia's even colder at this time of the year than Merry Old England. I really don't fancy a trip right now.

MYCROFT: Who's talking about a trip? They're here in London, Sherlock.

_Sherlock, try though he may to hide it, is rather taken aback. Mycroft smiles._

MYCROFT: This video surfaced on the nineteenth, and ever since, those in charge of the CCTV maintenance in the city have had strict orders to investigate and report every little glitch, every little hiccup in the system, and it seems that our friends in the masks have started getting down to business. There is a pattern emerging.

MI5 MAN _(tetchily):_ Or rather a lack of a pattern.

MYCROFT: It started in Camberwell on the night of the nineteenth. A camera on Brixton Road had a downtime of an hour and a half, and the entire recording of the twenty-four hours before that was deleted as well. The next night, the same occurred near Victoria Park in Bethnal Green, though the downtime was a bit shorter. On the twenty-first, the same in the West India Docks, with a similar downtime. On the twenty-second, a much shorter spell in Southwark. On the twenty-third, they'd relocated to Notting Hill, and last night they were south of the river again, in Deptford.

SHERLOCK: “They were”?

GCHQ MAN: Yes. To manipulate these cameras in the way they did, they had to be on the spot. These are all modern IP cameras. They transmit to a central recording device, called the Video - erm, the -

_He falters. The technician is watching his superior anxiously, clearly embarrassed on his behalf. Sherlock ostentatiously turns to him, eyebrows raised questioningly._

IT TECHNICIAN _(quietly):_ NVR. Network Video Recorder.

GCHQ MAN _(pointedly):_ Thank you.

SHERLOCK _(to the GCHQ man, generously):_ It's alright, you know. At your level of seniority, you get away with not knowing things.

GCHQ MAN _(to Mycroft, with a visible effort to keep his temper in check):_ I'm not sure I came all the way from Cheltenham only to – _(He breaks off, seeing very little sympathy in Mycroft's face. Stiffly)_ Well. These recorders store the images they've received from the cameras attached to their network for exactly twenty-four hours, after which they are automatically forwarded to a central archive for future reference. They also house an alarm system, in case one of the cameras fails, or is vandalised.

MYCROFT: And in all these cases, the alarm system was disabled along with the camera itself, which means that the actual attacks weren't on the cameras, but on the recorders.

SHERLOCK: Plural?

GCHQ MAN: Yes. There are several in every borough.

SHERLOCK: Where are they situated?

_This time, the GCHQ man voluntarily turns to his technician for enlightenment. The technician speaks rather diffidently at first, but gathers courage as he goes on, happy to be speaking to someone who actually appreciates his expertise rather than just taking it for granted._

IT TECHNICIAN _(to Sherlock):_ They’re hidden in plain sight, so to speak. Most of them have been integrated into transformer stations and distribution boxes. Anything with a BT or EDF Energy logo on it could in fact be an NVR as well. The point is, you have to know where to find them, but you don’t have to physically break into the London Internet Exchange to access them. Besides, the cameras and the recorders don’t operate on the public internet, of course. It’s a private LAN. So you couldn't hack them by remote access, you actually have to be there to get a foot in the door.

MI5 MAN _(clearly grudging a mere subaltern so much speaking time):_ The decentralised structure was supposed to make the network less vulnerable to attacks.

_Sherlock raises his eyebrows again, expressing despair of the stupidity of mankind in general and the secret services in particular._

GCHQ MAN _(petulantly):_ We were against it from the start.

_Mycroft clears his throat._

SHERLOCK _(to the MI5 man):_ You spoke of a lack of a pattern.

MI5 MAN: Yes. Obviously, to stop them, it would be of vital importance to know where they will strike next, but so far neither of us _(inclining his head towards his GCHQ colleague)_ has been able to establish a pattern. _(With a clear note of frustration in his voice)_ My people have analysed the locations of the attacks with a view to possible targets of strategic or symbolic importance, of course, but we find nothing of the sort in most of these places, let alone a unifying factor.

IT TECHNICIAN _(by now bold enough to speak up without asking his superior for permission):_ And we’ve looked at every possible technical link – IP addresses, obviously, the system by which the maintenance people have them listed, camera make, even the serial numbers of the actual cameras – but there’s nothing to connect them. It looks totally random, like they take the London A to Z and just blindly put their finger on the page.

SHERLOCK _(pensively):_ No, there has to be a link. _(He’s clearly beginning to enjoy himself. Thinking aloud)_ Camberwell, Bethnal Green, the Docklands, Southwark, Notting Hill, Deptford. _(He looks at Mycroft, inviting him to share the fun.)_ Points of the compass? Too easy. Postcodes? SW9, E2, E14... No. Well. What have you gathered from the exact locations of the cameras that were targeted?

MYCROFT _(leaning across to the GCHQ man):_ May we have a list, please?

SHERLOCK _(to Mycroft, in a tone of disbelief):_ Are you telling me that you haven't -

MYCROFT _(testily):_ No, not _yet_. As you might imagine, there are other things that require my attention now and again, apart from this affair.

_Meanwhile, the technician has been typing on his computer, and has pulled up a spreadsheet._

IT TECHNICIAN _(reading aloud from the screen):_ Brixton Road, Camberwell. Bishop's Way, Bethnal Green. Blackwall Basin in the Docklands. St. James’s Road, South-

SHERLOCK _(impatiently):_ No, no. The _exact_ locations, if you please.

_The technician looks slightly crestfallen, but quickly composes his face into a neutral expression again when he sees his superior frown._

IT TECHNICIAN: Alright. No. 122 Brixton Road, Camberwell, SW9, on the corner of Normandy Road. No. 35 Bishop’s Way, Bethnal Green, E2, on the corner of Waterloo gardens. Trafalgar Way, in the Docklands, E14, on the eastern side of the bridge across Blackwall Basin. No. 173 St. James’s Road, Southwark, SE1, on the corner of Culloden Close. No. 18 Blenheim Crescent, Notting Hill, W11, on the corner of Ladbroke Grove. No. 207 Evelyn Street, Deptford, SE8, on the corner of Armada Court.

SHERLOCK and MYCROFT _(simultaneously):_ Ah.

_All the other men in the room look at the two brothers in surprise, except maybe John, who seems more amused than astounded._

SHERLOCK _(to Mycroft):_ Clever.

MYCROFT _(to Sherlock):_ I said we were dealing with at least one well-educated man.

SHERLOCK: One with a shrewd sense of humour, too.

_In a rare moment of unclouded brotherly accord, the two of them seem completely absorbed in the pleasure of their little game. John smiles. The MI5 man and the GCHQ man exchange a doubtful look, then the MI5 man clears his throat._

MI5 MAN: If you wouldn't mind explaining –

SHERLOCK _(to Mycroft, generously):_ Your turn.

MYCROFT _(in the same tone):_ Oh, no, please. I think you got it a fraction of a second before I did.

SHERLOCK _(modestly):_ I really didn't.

_Mycroft makes a gesture to invite Sherlock to go ahead anyway._

SHERLOCK _(to the secret service men):_ Alright. Normandy – Waterloo - Trafalgar -

JOHN _(comprehension dawning on his face):_ Oh.

_The secret service men stare at John, half surprised, half jealous. Sherlock glances approvingly at his friend._

JOHN: - Culloden, Blenheim, Armada?

SHERLOCK: Exactly. _(To the secret service men)_ As anyone familiar with our country’s glorious military history can tell, we’re celebrating famous English victories. And we’re going back in time. I wonder what –

MI5 MAN _(firmly):_ That’s ridiculous.

SHERLOCK: Why?

MI5 MAN: It’s a coincidence.

SHERLOCK: With two or three of the kind, maybe. Not with six in a row.

_The MI5 man glances at Mycroft for confirmation. Mycroft nods._

MI5 MAN _(still unconvinced):_ But they’re _our_ victories. Why would a gang of Russian cyber terrorists arrange their campaign according to our victories?

SHERLOCK: It’s called irony, I believe. A variant of humour.

MI5 MAN _(to Mycroft, in a highly offended tone):_ Mycroft, please tell me that the results will justify this.

MYCROFT _(drily):_ I'm afraid they will.

SHERLOCK _(to the MI5 man):_ Besides, you would be hard put to it to find a street in London that was named after any famous English defeats. _(Aping a tone of pompous indignation)_ “Defeats? What defeats?” _(Back to normal)_ Precisely. You could read the London A to Z from cover to cover and would still fail to find a Gallipoli Road. In a surprising instance of decorum, there isn’t even a Somme Street, although that one technically does rank as a victory _. (To Mycroft)_ And I know I just told a lie.

MYCROFT: I wondered when you’d notice.

SHERLOCK: I did mean to ask what will happen when we get to Hastings.

_The MI5 man stares at Sherlock, suddenly extremely alert, almost electrified._

SHERLOCK _(to the MI5 man):_ Which, for your information, only the boldest historians would classify as a major English victory.

MI5 MAN _(not listening, to Mycroft, in a tone of alarm):_ Hastings, Mycroft –

_Mycroft raises his eyebrows._

MI5 MAN _(excitedly):_ We've received a letter, only last night, or rather a crude sketch, depicting the neighbourhood of No. 55 Hastings Street, and to all intents and purposes the author of it wants to convey the information that there is going to be a car bomb planted in front of No. 55 on the twenty-sixth of this month. Tomorrow, that is.

MYCROFT _(massively displeased):_ And I hear of it only now?

MI5 MAN _(defensively):_ We get almost a hundred of those letters every week. We're still in the process of determining whether this one is a hoax, or whether it is to be taken seriously.

MYCROFT: Well, I'm glad we've been able to speed up that process. _(The MI5 man looks mortified.)_ I believe I said the result would be worth the trouble.

_An uncomfortable silence. The IT technician begins typing on his computer again, by all appearances just filling the time until he is needed again._

MYCROFT _(with a pointed look at the MI5 man):_ The tenants will have to be notified.

_The MI5 man sighs and nods. Sherlock and John exchange a look, Sherlock quirking an amused eyebrow at his friend, John looking puzzled._

JOHN _(to Sherlock, quietly):_ What's at No. 55 Hastings Street?

SHERLOCK: I have no idea. Though not your average office block, by the sound of it.

MI5 MAN _(stiffly):_ No. 55 Hastings Street is the seat of a branch office of the United States Institute of Peace.

MYCROFT: But in fact it is something else entirely.

SHERLOCK: Ah. Have the CIA relocated again?

MYCROFT: No, it’s the other ones. Those with their basement full of servers and other computer hardware.

SHERLOCK: Marginally better than torture chambers, at any rate.

GCHQ MAN _(incredulously):_ So this whole CCTV stunt is in fact nothing but covering fire for a plot to blow up our American colleagues in Hastings Street?

_Nobody bothers to reply._

GCHQ MAN: Jesus.

_There is another silence. The technician is still typing away on his computer._

SHERLOCK _(to the MI5 man):_ That letter, or sketch – how did you get it?

MI5 MAN _(with a shrug):_ In a very old fashioned way. It was dropped in the letter box of the Deptford Police Station, some time between 8 and 10 p.m. yesterday evening. They forwarded it to us immediately when they found it, but there is no clue - _(with a sour look at Sherlock)_ or should I say no obvious clue - to the identity of the author. He very clearly took pains to remain –

SHERLOCK: - anonymous?

_Mycroft glances sharply at his brother, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice. Then Mycroft clears his throat._

MYCROFT: Well, I believe time is of some value now, if the attack on Hastings Street is scheduled for tomorrow. If our cyber terrorists have indeed forged an unholy alliance with their old school colleagues of the car bombing branch, the former should lead us to the latter easily enough. Since we know where they will strike next -

MI5 MAN _(anxiously):_ But we can’t possibly risk waiting for tomorrow night!

MYCROFT: That won’t be necessary. I believe we can predict with reasonable certainty where we may pick them up tonight. Any historian you'd ask to pick one major English victory between the time of the Spanish Armada and the Battle of Hastings would certainly -

SHERLOCK _(with a nod at the laptop screen):_ Look, he’s got it already.

_The IT technician turns round in his chair, caught in the act, beet red in the face._

IT TECHNICIAN _(embarrassed):_ I – I was just fiddling around a bit.

_He has pulled up a section of a map depicting the area around the Kentish Town railway junction.  
_

SHERLOCK _(to the technician):_ And I suppose what you’ve got there is the position of the Network Video Recorder that receives the images from the camera on the corner of Agincourt Road and Cressy Road in Hampstead?

IT TECHNICIAN _(blushing even more):_ Yes, it is. _(He switches the view of his map to that of a satellite photograph and makes the cursor hover on the spot.)_ A small transformer station on the edge of the car park behind the Kentish Town recycling centre, on Regis Road. Here.

SHERLOCK _(with a rare note of respect in his voice):_ You’re clearly wasted in your current job.

_The technician looks ready to burst with pride and is having a hard time trying to hide it. His superior looks mortally offended._

MI5 MAN: Agincourt Road?

SHERLOCK: Yes, of course. Rings a bell? “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more – or close the wall up with our English dead”? No? Never mind, it’s just poetry. Unless you let it become a reality tomorrow, but I think we’re all in this room working hard to save you from that.

_The MI5 man gapes at him, unable to believe such insolence. Mycroft opens his mouth as if to call his brother to order, but Sherlock continues too quickly._

SHERLOCK: Anyway, you’re in luck. Agincourt is the one famous victory that appears only once in the London A to Z, so you won’t have to stretch your resources. Just wait for them to turn up in Kentish Town tonight, and you’ve got all three of them.

MI5 MAN _(very pointedly, inordinately happy to get back at Sherlock at last): Four_ of them.  
  
SHERLOCK _(unfazed):_ Three of them. The fourth has already been found.

_A stunned silence. Sherlock is enjoying himself immensely._

MI5 MAN _(in a tone of disbelief):_ Dead?

SHERLOCK: Yes. _(To Mycroft)_ Congratulations.

MYCROFT _(peevishly):_ It wasn't us.

_The MI5 man looks scandalised at the very notion._

SHERLOCK _(innocently):_ I never said it was. It’s apparently, as yet, a genuine, regular murder enquiry conducted by the Met.

MYCROFT _(equally innocently):_ By the Met, or by someone else?

SHERLOCK: Sometimes they do try and work things out on their own, you know. ( _His phone in his pocket starts to ring. He takes it out and glances at the caller ID, then ends the call without taking it.)_ At least for a little while. Now excuse us please, gentlemen. I believe we're urgently needed elsewhere. Thank you for a _very_ enlightening morning. _(To Mycroft)_ Let me know when you’ve got everything in place for the operation in Kentish Town. Some friends of mine would love to be there.

MYCROFT: I beg your pardon?

SHERLOCK: You certainly won't object to the presence of the Murder Investigation Team in charge?

_The MI5 man gives a short, humourless bark of laughter._

MI5 MAN: Are you suggesting that seizing the remaining terrorists will help the police to find the killer of the fourth?

SHERLOCK: Naturally.

_Mycroft frowns at his brother._

MI5 MAN _(to Sherlock, acidly):_ And of course you’re already sure of his identity?

SHERLOCK: Yes, I am.

_Mycroft's frown deepens._

MI5 MAN _(barely able to contain himself any longer):_ Then wouldn't it be proper to -

SHERLOCK _(smiling insincerely):_ It'll all be in the file.

_Finally, Mycroft cracks._

MYCROFT _(to Sherlock):_ And now just get out.

 

* * *

 

 _**The door into the conference room in Thames House,** _ _seen from the corridor outside. The door opens, and out walks first John and then Sherlock. Behind them, the door falls closed again with a dull thud. John chuckles. Sherlock stops just outside the door, looks down at his shoes and blinks a couple of times. John stops chuckling._

JOHN: What is it?

SHERLOCK _(distractedly):_ Nothing. Just... processing some data. _(He raises his eyes to the ceiling and exhales audibly, making the hair on his forehead dance.)_ And forwarding it to a central archive for future reference. _(He meets John's eyes and smiles, if a little half-heartedly.)_ To stay on topic.

JOHN _(with a sigh):_ Yes, it was rather a lot.

SHERLOCK: Enormous. _(He visibly braces himself.)_ Right. Now for the pleasurable part of the morning?

_John, slightly surprised at the sudden change of subject, glances at his watch._

JOHN: Morning? It's a quarter to one. Greg will kill you, and then who's going to solve _that_ case?

_Now Sherlock chuckles. They start walking down the long corridor that stretches before them._

JOHN _(after a moment):_ I happened to know about Russian, but since when do you speak Czech as well?

SHERLOCK: I don't. Way too many consonants to get your tongue around. I understand a bit of it, though. A remnant from trying to track down the Golem, years ago.But I had to dig very deep to find it again, I admit, even with the little nudge I had. Small wonder Mycroft called me on it straight away.

JOHN _(shaking his head)_ : And that bloke in the video speaks all of six words in Russian, and you've got him.

SHERLOCK _(soberly)_ : No, Lestrade's got him. In the morgue.

_John stops dead in his tracks._

JOHN: What?

SHERLOCK: He's the dead one, John.

JOHN: Greg's identified him?

SHERLOCK: No. Molly Hooper has.

_He takes out his phone, punches a few buttons and holds it out to John. John takes it. In close-up on the screen, there is a text message which reads:_

Sherlock - He's Czech by his teeth and an IT pro by his right index finger, but Greg isn’t listening! Come and back me up! Molly x

SHERLOCK: I got this when you were paying the cabbie.

JOHN _(returning the phone)_ : Ah. And I thought I’d just witnessed another brilliant deduction.

SHERLOCK _(in a surprisingly irritable tone):_ Excuse me? You have. _(He holds up the phone.)_ Or what else would you call this? Just because it wasn’t me doesn’t mean it can’t be brilliant, you know.

_He pockets the phone and walks on without waiting for an answer. John shakes his head again and follows. They continue down the rest of the corridor, turn a corner and begin to descend a staircase._

JOHN: But you made that up, right, about knowing who the murderer is? Just to snub the MI5 lot, like they're a bunch of stupid schoolboys?

SHERLOCK: Well, they are, mostly. Though the GCHQ are usually my favourites, as far as snubbing goes. Not the techs, of course. They’re alright, like everywhere. But the ones in charge - ugh. _(He pulls a face and shudders.)_

JOHN: They read all your e-mails as well.

SHERLOCK: Yeah. Yours, too.

JOHN: Everyone’s, basically.

SHERLOCK: I wonder how they ever came to think that that’s going to make the world a better place?

_John shrugs._

_* * *_


	2. The Raid

_**St. Bartholomew's Hospital. The morgue** _ _. In the bare corridor leading to the dissecting rooms, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade is pacing up and down agitatedly and talking into his phone._

LESTRADE: Yeah, of course, but he didn't pick it up. _(A pause while he listens to the reply.)_ No, I've wasted enough time already, it hardly seems to matter now. _(Another pause.)_ Yeah, alright, Sally. Thanks. See you later.

_He ends the call and glances at his watch, probably for the hundredth time in a single morning. At that moment, the double doors at the end of the corridor are thrown open, and Sherlock and John make their entrance, John looking a bit guilty, Sherlock looking almost insultingly cheerful. Lestrade pockets his phone._

LESTRADE _(to Sherlock, extremely annoyed):_ God, you're a diva today. What the hell took you so long?

SHERLOCK: Finding the killers.

LESTRADE: Are you kidding? You haven't even seen the body yet.

SHERLOCK: Oh, right. I knew there was a reason why we came here. Let’s go in. _(Lestrade doesn't move.)_ Why are you hanging around in this cosy corridor anyway? Weak stomach, all of a sudden?

LESTRADE _(nodding at the closed door of the dissecting room):_ She kicked me out.

JOHN _(with an incredulous laugh):_ What?

SHERLOCK: You mean she suggested that you might like to go and get yourself a coffee while you wait?

LESTRADE _(firmly, with emphasis on every single word):_ She. kicked. me. out.

 

 _**The dissecting room.** _ _Bright clinical white light. On one of the tables is the body of an obese man, the lower half covered with a sheet. Molly Hooper is hard at work on the upper half, equipped with an apron, safety glasses and nitrile gloves, an electric bone-saw in her hand. She glances up as the door opens to admit Sherlock, John and Lestrade. She still looks upset, but she deliberately composes her face into a welcoming smile for Sherlock and John. Lestrade is being ignored. She switches off the bone-saw and gestures at the body in front of her._

MOLLY _(to Sherlock, apologetically):_ Sorry. I had to get started at some point. _(She puts the saw down and holds up a clip-board.)_ We've got them queuing today. It's almost as bad as during the heatwave in August.

SHERLOCK _(generously):_ Well, go ahead, before they get impatient and start complaining.

_Molly smiles and picks up the bone-saw again._

LESTRADE: No, wait, what about the teeth and the finger?

SHERLOCK: Molly's told you all you need to know about that. It's your problem if you don't listen.

LESTRADE: I didn’t “not listen”, you know. All I said was that it seemed a bit far-fetched that you could tell from someone’s teeth that they're Czech, but -

_Molly takes off her safety glasses, looking indignant._

MOLLY: - but that Romanian teeth, you could buy. Pointed fangs. Very funny. _(She turns to Sherlock and John.)_ It's not the teeth, it's the fillings. There are three of them, all in the molars, and all very recent. There's hardly any abrasion yet. The material has a distinct bluish-white colour. That means they're done with a type of ultra-quick light curing ceramics that were developed by a Czech firm only last year, and the Czech republic is the only place so far where they’re widely used in the -

LESTRADE _(under his breath, to John):_ Do _you_ know what’s got into her? She sounds like _him!_

 _Sherlock gives Lestrade a very dark look, and they_ _glare at each other for a moment. Then Sherlock abruptly turns back to Molly. Molly gives a start._

MOLLY _(defensively):_ I – I was at a conference, couple of weeks ago, on dental records in forensics, a- and -

SHERLOCK _(not unkindly):_ Don’t babble, Molly. No need. What about the index finger, is that another case of chronic tendinitis of the extensor indicis tendon? Like the one you showed me last year, the one who actually died from it?

JOHN _(in a tone of disbelief):_ Who _what?_

SHERLOCK: Crossed a road with his eyes on his iPad.

JOHN: Oh.

MOLLY _(back in her former tone of confidence):_ Definitely the same. It was so obvious I could feel it from the outside, before the rigor mortis set in fully. A very common problem with IT people. It's caused by repetitive strain on the tendons of the index finger, from clicking the left mouse button or flicking across a screen for hours on end every day.

LESTRADE _(to John, sarcastically):_ Did _you_ know it was contagious?

JOHN _(deliberately obtuse):_ What, tendinitis? Don’t worry, it isn’t.

_Lestrade rolls his eyes. Sherlock turns on his heel to face him._

SHERLOCK _(in a low but very sharp tone):_ I know you’re not happy with me today. Don’t take it out on her.

_Lestrade grimaces, but doesn't reply. He is beginning to look slightly guilty._

SHERLOCK _(to Molly, with another sudden change of tone, a rarely heard warmth in his voice now):_ Good work, Molly. Thanks a lot.

_She smiles at him happily._

 

 _**A little later,** _ _Sherlock, John and Lestrade have relocated to Molly’s lab, while Molly has presumably stayed behind at the morgue to take care of her long list of autopsies. Lestrade is on a stool next to a workbench, his elbow propped on the top of the bench and his head in his hand. Sherlock is leaning back in a chair with his feet up on a low filing cabinet. John is on another stool by the window, his back against the radiator for warmth. They all have paper cups of coffee from the hospital canteen in their hands, and Sherlock has apparently just ended his account of what he and John learned this morning about the cyber attacks on the CCTV system. Lestrade makes a low whistling sound._

LESTRADE: OK. Now I see how you knew Molly was right.

SHERLOCK: You should have seen that without my help, you know. Which part of it exactly did you find unconvincing?

LESTRADE _(in an appeasing tone):_ Yeah, I know. I know she knows her business like few others do. _(He runs his hand over his face.)_ I s'pose I just couldn't deal with her trying to stand in for you as well. You alone I can just about bear, but two of you is too much.

SHERLOCK: Now you're not making any sense. There aren’t two of me. Besides, I wasn’t even there.

_Lestrade makes a grunting noise and takes a sip of his coffee._

LESTRADE: Well. To business. So if that young nameless Czech hacker from the video is identical with the body we picked off the A2 last night, where does that leave us, as far as finding the killer or killers are concerned?

SHERLOCK: With the most obvious solution, of course.

LESTRADE: Which is? We know that he had his throat cut on the bridge over the A2 near Falconwood station and then either fell or - more likely, considering the height of the railing - was pushed over, crushing his head on the tarmac. There was blood spattered all over the pavement and the railing, up there on the bridge. Molly thinks it’s likely that the cutting of the throat alone killed him instantly, and he never even knew that he took a fall as well. She said it was very efficiently done, carotid artery neatly severed at the first attempt.

SHERLOCK: Fits in with what I assume happened.

LESTRADE: You assume, or you know?

SHERLOCK: I assume.

LESTRADE: You’re not usually content with assumptions.

SHERLOCK _(slightly irritated):_ Well, if you want assumptions to become certainties, join John and me on a little trip to the Kentish Town recycling centre tonight, and ask them yourself which of them did it.

LESTRADE: You mean they killed their own accomplice?

SHERLOCK: Of course. Who else? Mycroft said it wasn’t his people, and while he is an expert at obscuring truths, there’s no reason why he should tell me any outright lies about this. And we know that someone gave that whole plot away to the police. Someone, by the way, who passed by the Deptford Police Station some time late last night, and that place can't be all that far away from the NVR that the cameras on Evelyn Street transmit to. It’s not such a big leap from those facts to the assumption that it was our unfortunate guest in the morgue who did it. The youngest, the least experienced, naturally the first to get cold feet. And I don’t suppose that a veteran of the Chechen wars, or a fanatic like this Arbo, would hesitate to make short work of a traitor in their midst if they found out.

JOHN: But why? If he’d already given them away, why kill him and leave him lying around for the police to find, and endanger their whole mission? Wouldn’t they rather not let it show, take him back to Russia with them, and then get rid of him there, where probably nobody would care?

SHERLOCK: Exactly. It doesn’t make sense as an act of retribution. Which means that in all probability, they _didn’t_ know he’d already snitched on them. They killed him to prevent him from doing it, not to punish him for having done it. Which is a bit ironic, of course, but people have had their throats cut for much more absurd reasons. And thankfully it means that we’ll find the remaining three in Kentish Town tonight, thinking that they still have a chance to complete their work. _(He gets to his feet. To Lestrade)_ So, if you want my advice on how to proceed, you had bestbring an impressive number of your own people, and place your own request for the Rambos from the Specialist Firearms Command as well. Unless you want your counter terrorist colleagues to elbow you out of your own case altogether, of course.

LESTRADE _(straight-faced):_ Nobody ever does that with impunity.

_Sherlock hesitates for a moment, then grins at him. Lestrade grins back._

 

* * *

 

 _**Regis Road, Kentish Town, London.** _ _Nighttime. A couple of hundred yards into the industrial estate, just past the entrance gates to the UPS depot, the road has been cordoned off with police tape, four uniformed officers standing guard. Beyond the tape, a couple of police cars, both marked and unmarked, two Armed Response Vehicles and two large police vans have been parked in the road. In the open space beyond, a group of seven or eight officers in the black uniforms and full combat gear of the Specialist Firearms Command (also known as the SCO19) – helmets, bullet-proof vests, Heckler & Koch MP5 guns slung over their shoulders - are gathered around DI Lestrade and a colleague of his. This latter one is about ten years younger than Lestrade, of oriental appearance, and almost military in his bearing and manner of speech. He is addressing the SCO19 officers, obviously giving them their instructions, speaking earnestly and with great authority. Lestrade has his hands in the pockets of his jacket and seems content to be listening. It looks very much as if he has indeed been as good as elbowed out of the whole operation, but he doesn't seem to mind. Just behind him, at his shoulder, stands Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan, and next to her, behind the other Detective Inspector, stand two more plain clothes policemen, one about Sally's age, one older, grey haired and moustached. Some more regular uniformed officers are on the fringes of the group, listening as well. When Lestrade's colleague finishes speaking, the armed officers nod their understanding, and their leader signals to them to get going. They swiftly disappear into the darkness, moving in surprising silence considering their heavy boots and equipment. The other Detective Inspector turns to Lestrade and the sergeants, glancing at his watch. _

DETECTIVE INSPECTOR: Right. They should be in their places in fifteen minutes. I'll give you a shout.

_They nod, and he sets off after the SCO19 officers._

YOUNG SERGEANT _(to Lestrade and Sally Donovan):_ Fancy a coffee?

LESTRADE: Got our own, thanks.

SALLY DONOVAN _(simultaneously):_ Oh, yeah, great.

_The sergeant looks slightly puzzled at first, then grins._

YOUNG SERGEANT _(to Sally):_ Alright. Come on.

_The two of them walk over to one of the unmarked cars, followed by their older colleague. The group disperses, the uniformed officers returning to their own cars as well. As they all move away, we spot Sherlock and John standing close by, John with his hands behind his back, Sherlock with his hands in the pockets of his coat. Lestrade approaches them._

LESTRADE: Right. Let's get in a van, I'm freezing.

 

 _**A moment later,** _ _the three of them are in the back of a police van, one that has two rows of benches installed along its sides, vis-à-vis. They settle down to wait, Sherlock in a corner, John at his side, Lestrade opposite them. Lestrade puts his radio down on the seat next to him._

SHERLOCK _(to Lestrade):_ Don't tell me there _is_ coffee.

LESTRADE _(looking slightly guilty):_ Look, my own people are used to me bringing guests to the show, but not everyone in the force agrees that that's how it should be done.

JOHN: But this _is_ a joint operation, isn't it?

LESTRADE: Yeah, sort of. But it really is more in line with Jamal's usual work than with mine. I don't mind him heading it. _(Under his breath)_ And taking the blame if it goes wrong.

SHERLOCK: Jamal Massoud, is it?

LESTRADE: Yeah. Counter Terrorism Command. The youngest DI in the force. Have you met him?

SHERLOCK: No. But my brother thinks the world of him and his team.

LESTRADE _(without the least hint of jealousy):_ Justly so.

JOHN: And so does Sally Donovan.

SHERLOCK _(with a yawn):_ No, she just thinks of them as a lesser evil. Besides, they’ve got coffee.

LESTRADE: It's no coincidence Jamal's here tonight, at any rate. The powers that be at the Yard have been running around like headless chickens all afternoon. We've had some distinguished visitors, obviously, who voiced a polite request for this affair to be taken very seriously.

JOHN: Unlike everything else you've got going? _  
  
_LESTRADE _(annoyed):_ Exactly. No, really, I've rarely seen Jamal so on edge. He's being kept on his toes by the DCS, and the DCS is being kept on his toes by the Commissioner, and the Commissioner by the Home Secretary, and the Home Secretary – _(He glances at Sherlock.)_

SHERLOCK: - by my brother. And my brother by the Americans. _(He snorts.)_ What a ballet.

_Lestrade shrugs._

LESTRADE: That's the way it works. I don't mind telling you what Jamal said to the SCO19 guys just now.

JOHN: What?

LESTRADE: That he'd been expressly instructed that this wasn't the time to exercise restraint. And I think I can hear the accent he’s been told that in.

_There is a silence. Lestrade glances at his watch and drums his fingers on his thigh._

LESTRADE: I could do with a smoke. _(With another sidelong glance at Sherlock, who is on the verge of a grin)_ And don't look at me like that. _(To John)_ You know, the single worst thing about him coming back from the dead was that I had to stop smoking again.

_John raises his eyebrows._

SHERLOCK: He just hates losing all the time.

JOHN: Don't tell me you're still playing that little game?

SHERLOCK: Of course. I've already ruined his professional reputation, I feel I have a moral obligation to at least save his life.

_Lestrade gives him a disapproving look. He glances at his watch again._

SHERLOCK: And you've just done that. Who's keeping _you_ on your toes?

LESTRADE: You, usually. Feels weird when you don't. _(He shifts in his seat.)_ I wonder what's keeping them?

_Sherlock looks out of the window into the night and doesn't answer._

JOHN _(thoughtfully):_ You know, I keep thinking about the one the man from the GCHQ called the decent one of the bunch.

SHERLOCK _(still looking out, not really listening):_ Yeah? Why?

JOHN: Because I'm not exactly a friend of oriental dictators, brainwashing institutions and child porn producers, either. But it's weird to think that, for some people, it should be such a small step from that insight to planting car bombs. Not to mention murdering your mates to stop them snitching on you.

_Sherlock shrugs._

LESTRADE _(pointedly):_ “The Generous”.

JOHN: What?

LESTRADE: Kareem is Arabic for “The Generous”. One of the ninety-nine names of Allah, according to Jamal. Though in terms of generosity, that one's got nothing on his Czech colleague. Not to mention the decency everybody seems so ready to credit him with.

_John nods._

LESTRADE: Jamal had a couple of interesting thoughts on that group, by the way, and now I've seen the video myself, I think he’s right. The presence of the one called Yevgeny is really odd - a Russian ex-military man, a mercenary who’s never been interested in anything but money before, in that mask? And this whole plot, I mean the car bomb, is a far cry from what we usually see from those cyber kiddies who style themselves the Robin Hoods of the internet. The amount of logistics, intelligence and funds they’d need to make it happen – and all of it very tangible, not virtual at all…

JOHN: You think that they actually put those masks on to appear more harmless than they really are?

LESTRADE: Yeah, exactly. They may have wanted us to think of them as Robin Hoods, but in fact they’re probably more like agents of the King of France, or whoever was the hostile superpower hovering in the background at that time.

_John raises his eyebrows again, looking both impressed and a bit unsettled at the implications. Sherlock turns back towards the other two, another grin tugging at the corner of his mouth._

SHERLOCK _(to Lestrade):_ And what does that make you? The Sheriff of Nottingham?

LESTRADE _(drily):_ No, that’s your brother. I’m just one of those nameless idiots in chain mail who fall off their horses with arrows sticking out of their chests. _(Serious again)_ But what I meant to say is that although this Arbo is made to look like their leader in the video, he being the biggest name in the business, it’s probably Yevgeny who really pulls the strings. The other two - Kareem and the Czech – are no more than foot soldiers who just take care of the technical side of things, according to Jamal’s theory. Small fry, not big fish.

SHERLOCK: Mycroft thought so, too.

_John glances at Sherlock, apparently trying to remember Mycroft ever saying anything of the sort, fails, and gives up._

LESTRADE _(to Sherlock):_ And do you agree?

SHERLOCK _(indifferently):_ I suppose so. For all it’s worth.

_There is a short silence. All three of them seem deep in thought._

LESTRADE: He’s got a proper name now, by the way.

SHERLOCK _(looking up sharply):_ Who, Kareem?

LESTRADE: No, the Czech. He’s Pavel Rudnik, 21, an IT student from Prague. Entered the country on his real passport on the seventeenth, on an Easyjet flight to Stansted, checked into a backpacker hostel near St Pancras, checked out again after breakfast on the nineteenth and never surfaced again until early this morning on the A2. The description they gave us at the hostel fits exactly with what we got from the Czech colleagues, and it's our body right enough. We’re still waiting for the DNA results, but as far as I'm concerned, it's definitely him, by the description, and by the – erm –

SHERLOCK: - dental record?

LESTRADE _(embarrassed):_ Yeah.

SHERLOCK: I hope you've apologised to Molly Hooper.

_Lestrade gives him a dark look, but doesn't reply._

SHERLOCK _(lightly):_ I'll know it if you don't.

JOHN: That’s a kind of comfort, anyway.

_He has obviously been following his own line of thought._

LESTRADE _(puzzled):_ What is?

JOHN _(a little sadly):_ That he’ll be buried under his own name, rather than in that mask.

SHERLOCK _(drily):_ Wouldn't be allowed anyway.

JOHN: What?

SHERLOCK: Not biodegradable.

_John and Lestrade exchange a slightly revolted look. At this moment, Lestrade’s radio creaks, and he grabs it and climbs out of the van. The detective sergeants are just leaving their car as well. They gather in a small circle again, together with most of the uniformed officers, except those keeping guard where the road has been cordoned off. Sherlock and John follow, this time joining the policemen as a matter of course._

LESTRADE _(lowering the radio from his ear):_ Alright, they've got them covered. Their van was parked too close to the fence to encircle them fully, but Jamal says it should work this way. The recycling centre building will mask our approach. _(Glancing around at everyone in turn, including John and Sherlock)_ Can I rely on everyone to make sure that we won't have any unnecessary collateral damage? Keep well back and let the SCO19 lot finish their work first, please.

SHERLOCK _(aping a young child’s voice):_ OK, mummy.

LESTRADE _(to Sherlock, sternly):_ No, you _are_ an amateur when it comes to operating a submachine gun. And you don't argue with one of those, either.

 _Subdued laughter rises from the ranks of the policemen. Even John can’t help grinning. Sherlock scowls._ _They begin moving down Regis Road, Lestrade and his plain clothes colleagues striding ahead, then the uniformed policemen, and John and Sherlock bringing up the rear._

JOHN _(as they walk along, quietly):_ Sherlock?

SHERLOCK: Mmh?

JOHN: What _are_ we doing here?

SHERLOCK: Our job?  
  
JOHN: What job? The case is solved. Your brother asked you to find them, and you did.

SHERLOCK: Yes, but this is the really fun part, isn't it? _(With a knowing grin at his friend)_ Don't tell me you'd have preferred to miss it.

_John gives him a disapproving look, but the way his face lights up with badly suppressed excitement when they turn the corner and see the low recycling centre building in front of them speaks volumes._

 

 _**A moment later,** _ _they have entered the compound and are edging around the low dark building that screens the car-park behind it from the road. At the rear corner of the side of the building, one of the SCO19 officers can be seen crouching on the ground, his gun levelled on something in the car-park. A few paces behind him and close to the wall stands DI Massoud, his radio in his hand. He turns when he hears Lestrade and the others approach, gesturing to them for silence. But at that exact moment, a sudden hoarse shout in Russian can be heard, by the sound of it a warning, and immediately afterwards, the stillness of the night is torn apart by a volley of gunshots, some from a handgun but many more from the submachine guns of the SCO19 marksmen. The one at the corner, however, is still holding his fire. Massoud flattens himself against the wall. Lestrade carefully sidles up to him. The uniformed regulars and the detective sergeants, with deeply ingrained discipline, dutifully hang back, but they’re all on tip-toe, craning their necks to see what’s going on._

MASSOUD _(listening intently to what he hears on his radio and relating it quickly to the others, no longer concerned about silence):_ One of them's in the transformer station. Must have spotted us, started firing straight away. The two others are still in the van. No fire from that direction.

_The gunfire dies down again. The marksman at the corner beckons to the two detective inspectors, signalling to them that it is safe to come closer again. As they peer around the corner, the situation becomes immediately clear. At the back of the building, at the further end of the almost empty car-park, a high fence of vertical steel bars separates the compound from the darkness beyond. Parked close to the fence, parallel to it, is a white minivan with the BT logo on it, its side door open, but nobody to be seen within. To the right of the van, there is the small transformer station. Its door is at right angles to the recycling centre building, so we can't look inside it from our corner. It is obviously at a blind angle for the marksman stationed here, too, though apparently not for the others, two of whom can be seen crouching on the flat roof of the recycling centre building with their guns trained on it. The other marksmen are out of sight from our point of view. The whole scene is very dark, since the armed officers have the lights on their guns and helmets switched off not to present an easy target. They can be seen only in shadowy outline._

LESTRADE _(in a low voice, to Massoud):_ What now?

MASSOUD: Call for surrender.

SHERLOCK: Pointless.

LESTRADE _(with a shrug):_ Good manners.

_He turns around fully and frowns, realising only now that Sherlock, and John behind him, have crept up right to where he and Massoud are standing. He opens his mouth to protest, but never gets the chance._

MASSOUD _(into his radio):_ Call for surrender.

_At the same moment, another shout in Russian can be heard from the direction of the transformer station._

SHERLOCK _(urgently):_ Yevgeny. Told the others to run.

_Before Sherlock has even finished speaking, the man in the transformer station starts firing again, and the marksmen on the roof of the building, as well as some from further away to the left, immediately return the fire, the bullets ricocheting off the walls of the transformer station with shrill whistling noises. There is a shadow of movement in the open door of the van, and a moment later, two pale ovals appear in the almost total darkness, side by side, but the one on the right notably higher up than the other. The as yet unengaged marksman at the near corner can be seen to take careful aim at the figure on the right. John grimaces. Sherlock is biting his lower lip. The marksman fires a single shot. Both masked men drop headlong out of the open door into the even deeper darkness on the ground._

JOHN _(under his breath):_ God.

SHERLOCK _(calmly):_ Can’t hit two men with a single shot.

_John squints into the darkness ahead. There is definitely the dark lump of a body lying motionless on the ground in front of the van, but it doesn’t look big enough for two._

SHERLOCK _(in a whisper):_ Crept under the van, the fox.

_The marksman takes aim again, but refrains from firing as he realises that the unmoving body on the ground is blocking his line of fire. He can be heard to mutter a curse, and begins to shift to the right for a better firing line in case he should spot his second target again. Sherlock quickly glances up at the marksmen on the roof. For them, the angle is clearly too steep for their shots to reach under the van. The ones further to the left are being kept busy by Yevgeny in the transformer station. Sherlock puts his hand on John's arm._

SHERLOCK _(urgently, no longer bothering to keep his voice down):_ Come on, John! That one's ours!

_And he forges ahead, passes the marksman on the corner with a few long strides, then immediately swerves to the right to give the embattled transformer station a wide berth. John hares after him, whether to stop his friend doing something incredibly stupid or to share the fun is unclear._

LESTRADE _(shouting after them):_ Oi, keep back! Are you _mad?_

_Massoud speaks hectically into his radio, presumably to stop the marksmen firing on Sherlock and John by mistake, then exchanges a look with Lestrade and shakes his head in exasperation._

_**We follow Sherlock and John** _ _as they pass behind the transformer station, running at top speed. They're now in the actual yard of the recycling centre, which is filled with containers for glass and scrap metal and paper and other materials. Sherlock skitters to a halt in an open space, trying to get his bearings. John catches up with him, takes a torchlight from the pocket of his jacket and shines it around. The gunfire from the car-park continues in the background, though less intense now. Straight ahead, between two containers, a part of the high fence marking the rear boundary of the compound can be seen, and at that exact moment, a shadow flits across it from the left – the direction of the car-park – to the right. Sherlock and John exchange a look, then race after it, John pocketing his light again as he runs. As they turn the corner, a long, clear, arrow-straight stretch of ground opens before them all along the fence, and a little further on, the running figure of a man is clearly discernible even in the darkness. When he glances over his shoulder at his pursuers, he can be seen to still wear his Guy Fawkes mask. Sherlock and John set off after their quarry, but John, on his shorter legs, is soon falling behind. He slows down deliberately, and half-pulls his gun out of his pocket as if he is considering taking aim at the fleeing man’s legs. But Sherlock, with his coat billowing out behind him, is right in his line of fire anyway._

JOHN _(under his breath):_ Get out of the way, you idiot!

_Sherlock simply runs on. John grimaces, fully pockets his gun again and follows. The fence on their left ends, but is seamlessly replaced by a brick wall of equal height. They've crossed almost the whole breadth of the compound now, at the end of which the brick wall turns at a right angle, creating a corner. There is a high, untidy stack of scrap timber tossed helter-skelter into the corner under the wall. The masked man, maybe twenty yards ahead of Sherlock at this point, jumps straight onto the timbers, which move and slide precariously under his weight, and scrambles up to the top of the stack. He reaches up with his hands and starts pulling himself up onto the wall. Sherlock, already on the lower part of the stack, lunges upward to make a grab for the man's feet, but without success. In the blink of an eye, the man is up and over the wall, while Sherlock’s greater weight and the momentum of his movement have dislodged the timbers on top even further, setting off a veritable avalanche. Sherlock loses his footing and his balance, slithers backwards and downwards on the rolling timbers and collides violently with John, who has just reached the foot of the stack. John gives a wordless shout of alarm and anger as Sherlock's weight knocks him right to the ground. Sherlock almost comes down on top of his friend, reeling and steadying himself against John as he struggles to stay upright. John, on the ground, gives another yell, this time of pain, and clutches his ankle._

JOHN: Ow! My foot!

_Sherlock, firmly on his own feet again by now, grabs him by the arm to pull him up, but John collapses again with a grimace._

SHERLOCK _(shouting into his face):_ For God's sake, John! We're losing him!

_John jerks his arm out of Sherlock's grasp._

JOHN _(shouting back):_ Then go ahead, dammit!

_Sherlock hesitates for a second, then nods, lets go of John and scrambles up on all fours onto what remains of the timber stack. He can still just reach the top of the wall with his hands, pulls himself up as well and disappears over it._

_**On the other side of the wall,** _ _we see him drop down to the ground. A railway line runs very close to the wall, and in the darkness ahead, the masked man is just visible racing along the tracks. Sherlock gives chase again, and either he is going faster than before, trying to make up for lost time, or the other man is flagging now, or both, but fifty paces further on, the distance between them has already shortened considerably. From round a bend, the enormous headlights of a Thameslink train suddenly loom out of the darkness, and the rumbling noise of the train fills the air. The masked man swerves to the right to avoid the train, crashing through the undergrowth on the bank lining the tracks. Sherlock turns aside at the same point just as the train comes rattling past him, perilously close. On the other side of the bank, yet another industrial yard opens before him, this one entirely empty, fenced in on one side, walled in on the other. The ground is paved with concrete, broken in places, and littered with debris. The masked man is barely ten yards ahead now, making for the metal barrier separating the yard from the road beyond. He stumbles on the uneven paving, catches himself just before he falls, but it loses him vital seconds, and a moment later, Sherlock is on him. He crash-tackles him to the ground, and they are rolling together in a flurry of arms and legs and coat-tails until S_ _herlock comes out on top. He tries to pin the other man down with his hands on his shoulders, but his opponent is writhing like an eel and fighting like a wildcat to throw him off. They're almost face to face, or rather face to mask, Sherlock breathing heavily, a vein pulsing in the side of his neck, the Guy Fawkes face ghostly pale in the darkness. The_ _masked man's right hand comes up, holding a broken piece of brick that he has clawed from the ground, and he aims a vicious blow at Sherlock's head with it. Sherlock jerks his head aside, and the piece of brick barely grazes the side of his face. He grips the other man's wrist and slams his elbow down hard onto the paving. With a yelp of pain, the masked man drops the brick. Sherlock lets go of his arm, makes a grab for_ _the Guy Fawkes mask and rips it off his opponent's face._

SHERLOCK: Hello, Victor. I thought I knew your voice.

_And we cut to -_

 

 _**The same empty yard,** _ _a few minutes later. It is quiet and deserted, except for the dark figure of Sherlock lying motionless the ground exactly where we saw him catch up with the masked man earlier. There is the sound of muffled shouting and running footsteps, and a moment later, Lestrade and several of the armed SCO19 officers come trampling through the undergrowth from the direction of the railway line. John is a couple of lengths behind them, limping. The armed officers immediately secure the area, pointing their lights and their guns into every last corner, then spread out, looking for their escaped quarry, most of them making for the barrier separating the yard from the road. Lestrade, and John after him with his torch in his hand again, run straight to Sherlock on the ground. Lestrade reaches him first and turns him over. John drops down on his knees on Sherlock’s other side._

JOHN _(very tensely)_ : Sherlock?

_He shines his light directly into Sherlock’s face. It picks out a trail of dark red blood running down the side of his face from a deep gash in his left temple. Sherlock groans and blinks, blinded by the sudden glare. John immediately lowers the light in his hand._

JOHN _(under his breath):_ Thank goodness.

SHERLOCK _(stupidly):_ John?

LESTRADE _(to Sherlock, urgently):_ Where did he go?

SHERLOCK: Who?

LESTRADE:Guy Fawkes. Remember?

SHERLOCK _(confused):_ I had him.

LESTRADE _(grimacing):_ Not for long. Did you see where he went?

SHERLOCK: No... _(He struggles into a sitting position. John props him up.)_ But I heard… _(He shakes his head as if to clear his thoughts.)_ Broken glass under his feet. Mesh wire, creaking under his weight.

_Lestrade immediately takes the torch from John, straightens up and points it around the yard. The light picks out a glint of broken glass on the ground, a couple of feet away to their left, and beyond it, the mesh wire fence separating the yard from the next compound._

LESTRADE _(calling to the armed officers):_ This way!

_They run towards the fence, and two of the officers immediately sling their guns over their shoulders and start scaling up. Sherlock and John are left alone in the middle of the yard._

SHERLOCK: We should go with them.

JOHN: You don’t look like you’ll be much use.

_Sherlock grimaces in frustration._

JOHN: He gave you quite a dent there. Let me have a look.

SHERLOCK _(peevishly)_ : Oh, I’m fine.

_He fingers the gash in his temple and looks at his bloody fingertips with detached interest. John pulls a face._

JOHN: Leave it alone. That wants to be cleaned and then taped, if not stitched. Let’s get back to the cars. Come on.

_He straightens up and holds out his hand to pull Sherlock to his feet. Sherlock gratefully takes it and lets himself be pulled upright. They set out in the direction of the road, taking it slowly._

SHERLOCK _(glancing sideways at John as they walk):_ Why are you limping?

JOHN _(exasperated)_ : Because some great oaf stepped right onto my Achilles tendon while trying to disentangle himself from his own overlarge coat.

SHERLOCK ( _pulling his coat around himself, in an offended tone):_ It’s not overlarge. It fits me perfectly.

_John rolls his eyes. They turn a corner, and the flashing blue lights of the waiting police cars can be seen in the distance._

 

 _**Shortly afterwards,** _ _John and Sherlock are sitting side by side on the step of the open side door of one of the police vans, Sherlock with his elbow propped against the jamb of the door and the good side of his head in his hand, still looking slightly befuddled. An ambulance is parked close by, its rear doors open, brightly lit inside. There is a shape of a covered body visible on the stretcher, but nobody attends to it. One of the paramedics stands next to the vehicle, talking to Sally Donovan and the older of Massoud's detective sergeants. Another paramedic – a broad-shouldered, very resolute-looking woman with spiky short hair – approaches the police van where John and Sherlock are sitting. John gets up to make room for her. She nods in acknowledgment, puts the bag with her equipment down where John was sitting and opens it. Sherlock, rather unwillingly, sits up straight to let himself be administered to. Wordlessly, the paramedic puts on fresh gloves, none too gently pushes Sherlock's hair off his face and starts dabbing off the blood and cleaning the wound on his temple. At that moment, the sound of approaching footsteps can be heard – several people, some of them in heavy boots – and Greg Lestrade and the armed officers who have been hunting for the fugitive come striding into view. Sherlock turns his head to look._

PARAMEDIC _(stiffly)_ : Can you keep still for a moment, please.

_Sherlock scowls at her._

PARAMEDIC _(equally annoyed)_ : Just trying to do my job, OK?

SHERLOCK: And you’re keeping me from doing mine. Hurry up.

_John grimaces unhappily. The armed officers are dispersing to their own cars, taking off their helmets as they go. Lestrade walks up to Sherlock and John. The paramedic turns towards him._

PARAMEDIC _(pointing at Sherlock but addressing Lestrade):_ This one of yours, or one of the bad guys?

LESTRADE: Ours. Why?

PARAMEDIC _(holding up her antiseptic spray):_ Just wondering how much to make it sting.

LESTRADE _(glancing disapprovingly at Sherlock):_ Oh, the whole works, if you like. He hasn't exactly covered himself with glory.

PARAMEDIC: Fine.

_She gets back to work, actually turning Sherlock's head back towards her with a hand under his chin. He resigns himself to his fate, at least for the time being._

JOHN _(to Lestrade_ ): He got away then?

LESTRADE ( _in a voice full of frustration_ ): Clean away. _(Under his breath)_ Fucking shit.

SHERLOCK _(muttering):_ Not my fault.

LESTRADE _(rounding on Sherlock):_ Oh, really? I think someone told you not to meddle. And even so, can you believe it? Two men go after a mere boy by the look of him, and the result is, one is limping and one is bleeding and none of them has anything to show for it!

SHERLOCK _(equally loudly):_ And you can go and solve your cases yourself, next time! Ouch!

_The paramedic smiles sourly._

JOHN _(to Lestrade, in an appeasing tone):_ But you said you had the other two.

LESTRADE: Yeah. Sort of.

_Sally Donovan appears at Lestrade’s shoulder. She has evidently overheard the last exchange._

SALLY: Very sort of. The one who got shot is as dead as the proverbial doornail. Bullet in his thigh ruptured the femoral artery, according to the medic. Bled to death before we ever got to him.

LESTRADE: And the other one?

SALLY _(with a shrug):_ Nothing but bumps and bruises, but pretends to speak only Russian. I've requested an interpreter, but they're all busy at the moment. I doubt we'll get one before morning, and by then the third man will be long gone.

LESTRADE: Jamal -?  
  
SALLY: Any amount of Urdu and Arabic, but no Russian. Besides, he's busy on the phone.

_She and Lestrade exchange a look of sympathy for their hard-pressed colleague._

JOHN _(to Sherlock):_ Why don't you - ?

_Sherlock gives John a disapproving look. The paramedic has now finished cleaning the gash and is taping it closed. In spite of her bad temper, she works very conscientiously and competently._

LESTRADE _(to Sherlock, still very much annoyed):_ Oh, yeah. Try and make yourself useful, for a change?

_Sherlock shrugs. They wait in silence for the paramedic to finish her job. When she does and starts packing up her equipment, Sherlock gets up._

JOHN _(to the paramedic):_ Thank you.

_She merely wrinkles her nose and leaves in a huff._

 

 _**Inside the back of the police van** _ _that served Lestrade, Sherlock and John as a waiting room earlier, Yevgeny, minus his mask, is sitting in the back corner of one of the benches with his handcuffed hands in his lap. He’s a bull of a man with very short hair and bloodshot eyes and a look of supreme unconcern on his face. A uniformed officer sits next to him, keeping guard, then Sally Donovan. On the opposite bench sits Lestrade, Sherlock next to him, then John. Jamal Massoud is nowhere to be seen; he's probably still on the phone, apologising to his superiors for not making a complete success of his mission._

LESTRADE _(to Sherlock):_ OK, ask him if he knows that his comrade is dead. Just so he knows that he can't possibly expect any help from that quarter.

SHERLOCK _(with a glance at Yevgeny's face):_ Ask him yourself. He understands you perfectly.

LESTRADE _(to Yevgeny):_ Right. So?

_In response, Yevgeny releases a string of very aggressive-sounding Russian words in Lestrade’s direction. Lestrade gives Sherlock a questioning look._

SHERLOCK: He says he thinks your mother had some fun with a dog, and you were the result. _(Lestrade’s jaw drops.)_ But I think he's speaking figuratively.

_John grins. Lestrade is not amused. Yevgeny fires off more Russian expletives, this time in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock replies, probably in kind, and Yevgeny repeats what he just said, only louder._

LESTRADE _(to Sherlock)_ : And now I'm dying to know what he's got to say about _your_ mum.

SHERLOCK: Nothing whatsoever. He merely corrected my grammar.

LESTRADE _(to Yevgeny):_ Now listen, buddy. You’ll get one chance now to show a bit of goodwill. If you tell us where to look for the third man of your little troupe, there might be something in it for you. If you don’t, your loss.

_Yevgeny’s lips curl in a sneer, but he remains silent. Sherlock sighs and gets up._

SHERLOCK _(to Lestrade, mock-politely)_ : With all due respect, Detective Inspector, that gentleman is wasting your time, and mine. _(He suppresses a yawn.)_ Besides, my head hurts. I want my bed.

_Sally Donovan gives a derisive snort. Yevgeny leers and jerks his head in her direction, following it with what sounds like a question to Sherlock. Sherlock glances at Sally, too, turns back to Yevgeny, smiles at him very briefly and then viciously backhands him across the face. Yevgeny’s head jerks backwards, bumping against the car window, and he makes a whimpering sound._

SHERLOCK: Don’t say that again, ever.

_There is a stunned silence from the onlookers._

SALLY _(after a moment, to Sherlock)_ : Wow. Is that where I say thank you?

SHERLOCK _:_ Don’t bother. It wasn’t personal. Come on, John.

_Sherlock and John climb out of the van._

 

 _**A little later,** _ _John and Sherlock are walking through the night, making their own way home. John is still limping slightly. Sherlock is staring straight ahead. John glances up at him occasionally._

JOHN _(after a while):_ You alright?

SHERLOCK: Of course.

JOHN _(with a shrug):_ You don’t usually whine.

SHERLOCK: It’s kind of liberating, at times.

_Silence. They walk on._

JOHN: Don’t let it get to you.

SHERLOCK: I don’t.

JOHN: Yes you do. Or _have_ you suddenly developed a tenderness for Sally Donovan?

_Sherlock merely snorts._

JOHN: Listen, they might catch him yet. And even if they don’t, you agreed yourself that he was only a foot soldier, not one of the big fish. A pawn, right? No more.

_Sherlock stops dead in his tracks and turns towards his friend. He narrows his eyes, and there is suddenly a look of grim determination on his face._

SHERLOCK: He’s not a pawn, John.

_John frowns. Sherlock seems on the verge of saying more, but changes his mind, turns away and walks on. John follows._

* * *


	3. The Client

_**221B Baker Street. The living room.** _ _Late on the next morning. The coffee table, littered with newspapers, has been placed between John and Sherlock’s armchairs, and Sherlock is sitting in his chair, leaning forward towards the chessboard that he has put on top of the papers. From time to time, he moves a piece, but not in the strict order required by a proper game of chess. He seems rather to try to set up a particular situation. John, in his jacket, with a rolled-up magazine sticking out of one of his pockets and carrying a plastic bag with some takeaway boxes in it, enters the room from the stairs. Sherlock glances up briefly at his friend as he crosses to the dining table. John puts the takeaway down onto it._

SHERLOCK: Thanks.

JOHN _(in a slightly irritated tone):_ My pleasure.

_He turns away from the table to walk over into the kitchen. Sherlock’s eyes are already back on the chessboard. He is frowning at it in concentration, his elbows on his knees, pushing back the hair from his forehead with both hands so that the neat white plaster covering the gash in his temple is clearly visible. John glances at him as passes, then stops short and does a double take. Sherlock, noticing his friend’s movements out of the corner of his eye, takes his hands out of his hair again and straightens up, giving John a questioning look. John braces himself and takes the magazine out of the pocket of his jacket._

JOHN: Here. For you.

_He tosses the magazine to Sherlock, who catches it and looks at the cover, frowning. It is a Big Issue._

SHERLOCK: For me? Why?

JOHN _(pointedly):_ Because it was forced on me by a very pushy gap-toothed case of terminal alcoholic cirrhosis, and when I said that I really wasn't interested, he insisted that my girlfriend would be.

_Sherlock merely snorts. He abandons the chessboard and starts flicking idly through the magazine. When John turns his back to walk off into the kitchen, Sherlock – now with very quick, purposeful movements - goes back two or three pages, peels a small Post-it note off a page, glances over it and makes it disappear inside the cuff of his shirt just as John returns to the living room, having taken off his jacket and put it over the back of a kitchen chair. Sherlock drops the magazine onto the coffee table, on top of the other papers._

JOHN _(nodding at the magazine):_ Nothing in there to interest you?

SHERLOCK: Nothing that requires immediate action on my part, at any rate.

_He turns his attention back to the chessboard. John hesitates, then sits down in his own chair._

JOHN: Sherlock, what's wrong with you?

SHERLOCK _(without looking up, in a flat voice):_ There's nothing wrong with me.

JOHN: Yes, there is. You sit in here all day -

SHERLOCK: It's barely noon, John.

_John rolls his eyes._

SHERLOCK: And I did go out this morning.

JOHN _(irritated):_ Yeah, for all of two and a half minutes, to fetch in the papers. _(He leans forward in his chair.)_ Listen, last night, you seemed hell-bent on catching that bloke, and when we didn't, you minded so much that it turned you absolutely obnoxious, even by your own high standards. And today, when he’s still out there for all we know, you're just sitting here like there's nothing to do! Except for playing chess against yourself, apparently, whatever the point of that may be.

SHERLOCK _(moving another piece)_ _:_ It's the offline version of hacking your own computer.

JOHN: Ha ha.

_Sherlock leans back in his chair and crosses his legs._

SHERLOCK: You know how these cases unfold, John. In stages. _(Didactically)_ There's a time for action, and there's a time for reflection, and sometimes there are even times when all you can do _is_ sit around and wait for new developments. I know you've never quite got the hang of how to do that without going up the wall, but that's not my fault, is it? _(He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand.)_ Feel free to go out and keep yourself busy by whatever more exciting means you can think of, if you take such exception to the sight of me sitting here doing nothing. _(Rather petulantly)_ I'd actually prefer a bit of peace and quiet in the house right now. I've still got a headache.

_His eyes return to the chessboard. John regards him for a moment, the muscles working in his face, obviously trying to make up his mind about something. Sherlock leans forward again and moves another chess piece. John stands up._

JOHN: You know, I wish you’d just stop lying to me.

SHERLOCK _(looking up at him, in a tone of surprise):_ Me? Lie to you?

JOHN: You know what I mean.

_Sherlock frowns at him, looking honestly puzzled._

JOHN: I’m not stupid, you know. _(Pointing at the patch of plaster on Sherlock’s temple)_ A headache? From that? The blood was real enough, but there’s hardly any bruising underneath. Whatever happened in that yard before Greg and I turned up, it wasn’t enough to knock you out.

_Sherlock exhales audibly. He has abandoned his expression of innocent confusion, but his face is unreadable otherwise._

JOHN: And even before that, when he went over the wall, I could hardly believe that it was mere clumsiness that made the heel of your shoe grind itself into exactly that part of my foot with such remarkable precision. You didn’t want me to follow you, did you?

_Without haste, Sherlock, too, rises from his chair._

SHERLOCK _(quietly)_ : John –

JOHN: And you must have squeezed your eyes shut very tightly indeed not to see where he went from that yard. Clever of you to come up with that little fake deduction about the broken glass and the fence, to send Greg and his men off in the wrong direction. It was one of those things only Sherlock Holmes would have noticed, wasn’t it?

SHERLOCK: John, I –

JOHN: Except even Sherlock Holmes couldn’t have heard that if he’d really been out cold.

SHERLOCK _(losing his patience):_ John, listen to me!

JOHN _(sternly):_ No, you listen to _me._ I’ve found you bleeding on the ground once too often to still believe in it. It worked the first time, it almost worked the second time. But the next time it happens, I’ll just leave you lying there and walk away, no matter whether it's real or not, because I’m sick and tired of rushing to your rescue when all you ever do in return is tell me lie - after - lie.

SHERLOCK _(coolly)_ : You don’t understand.

JOHN _(exploding, very loudly):_ And how the bloody hell am I _supposed_ to understand anything you do if you go to such lengths to keep me in the dark? After all that time, do you really still not trust me to keep your secrets? Or do you _enjoy_ watching me bumbling about and not getting it?

_A pained expression passes across Sherlock’s face. John sees it, and visibly deflates. There is a silence while they look at each other, both at a loss for words. At length, Sherlock speaks._

SHERLOCK: John, there simply wasn’t time. It was a damn close call, even so. _(He takes a deep breath.)_ And as for trusting you, you know – or you would know, if you’d only allow yourself to see it – that I’d never hesitate for a second to trust you with my life, let alone a secret. But in this case –

_He breaks off. John is shaking his head, his lips pressed tightly together. Sherlock raises both hands, palms outwards, in a gesture of resignation._

SHERLOCK: Alright, alright. Sorry to be disappointing. _(Bitterly)_ There’s always an exception, isn’t there, when it matters most.

JOHN _(crossing his arms, rather aggressively):_ Right. So, why this time?

SHERLOCK: This time, to be honest, I assumed that you’d actually prefer the lies to the truth.

_John opens his mouth to protest. At exactly that moment, the doorbell rings._

SHERLOCK: Too late now. Sorry.

_There is the muted sound of the front door downstairs opening and closing, then footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock and John both turn towards the open door. A moment later, two men enter the room, one after another. Both are in white overalls of the type usually worn by painters and decorators. The first man is tall and broad-shouldered, with very short ginger hair and a goatee, his rolled-up sleeves revealing muscular forearms covered in tattoos. He carries a short ladder over his shoulder and has a large white bucket in his other hand, containing brushes and paint pots and all the other tools of his trade. The other man is a whole head shorter, and looks barely half the other's width as well. His face is almost invisible under the too-large baseball cap that he wears on his head. The man with the tools puts them down on the floor just inside the door. The other one glances around the room very quickly, taking in Sherlock's and John's presence, then lowers his eyes again._

JOHN _(to Sherlock, still highly irritated):_ And this is about - ?

_Sherlock jerks his head at The Wall._

SHERLOCK: Mrs Hudson finally agreed to let me get that wall redone.

JOHN: Rubbish.

SHERLOCK: Of course. Like she ever would. _(To the taller of the newcomers, in a business-like tone)_ Rob. You pop down to Mrs Hudson’s for an hour or so. Let her make you a cup of tea, and something for the road. You look at the maps and work it all out. This is where you’ll be going.

_He takes a folded piece of paper out of the pocket of his jacket and hands it to the man called Rob, who opens it and glances at the handwritten note on it._

ROB _(in a surprised tone):_ That’s halfway across the country, mate.

SHERLOCK: Can you do it, or can’t you?

ROB: It ain’t gonna be quick, that’s all. _(Pointedly)_ Nor cheap.

_Sherlock shrugs._

ROB: Limit?

SHERLOCK: None. But don’t think I won’t be checking the books when you get back.

ROB: Alright.

_Sherlock holds out his hand for the paper and receives it back. Rob nods to his colleague, very curtly but not unkindly, then exits the room to go downstairs._

SHERLOCK _(calling after him):_ Got your phone switched off?

ROB _(off-screen, calling back):_ Think I’m stupid, or what?

 _When Rob has gone, their second visitor exhales audibly, takes off his baseball cap and raises his head to meet Sherlock’s eyes. His face is pale and drawn, almost gaunt, deep dark hollows under bloodshot eyes, but it is familiar. It is the face_ _of a still young, almost boyish-looking man with fine-boned, delicate features, very dark eyes, and equally dark hair, now cropped short and rather unwashed._ _There is a short silence. Then Sherlock half-turns towards John._

SHERLOCK _(mock-formally, making the introductions)_ : John, Victor Trevor, today without a mask. Victor, Doctor John Watson.

JOHN: Holy shit.

VICTOR _(desperately defiant)_ : Pleased to meet you, too.

_Sherlock gives Victor a sidelong glance, surprised but approving. There is another silence. Then John turns to face Sherlock._

JOHN: You let him get away.

SHERLOCK: Yes. As you so very perceptively deduced, I did.

 

 _**Flashback** _ _to_ _Sherlock and Victor, the latter still masked, rolling and fighting on the ground of the empty yard the night before. Again, we see Sherlock trying to pin his opponent down, dodging the blow with the broken piece of brick, disarming him and finally ripping the mask off his face._

SHERLOCK: Hello, Victor. I thought I knew your voice.

_The face that emerges from under the mask is the same that we've just seen again in Baker Street – that of Victor Trevor, but this time drenched in sweat, and his dark eyes, fixed on Sherlock’s, huge with fear. He is panting for breath, his ragged gasps the only audible sounds in the sudden stillness until he finds his voice._

VICTOR: Shit. Fucking shit.

SHERLOCK: And there it is again.

VICTOR: What?  
  
SHERLOCK: Your Russian childhood. Still crystal-clear in your end consonants.

_Victor closes his eyes in resignation, or maybe in mere exhaustion._

VICTOR: You knew it was me.

SHERLOCK _(sitting back on his heels):_ Of course. And we’d better not throw away what little advantage that fact gives us. _(He takes his phone out of the inner pocket of his coat and quickly punches a couple of buttons with his thumb.)_ Still good with numbers?

VICTOR _(confused)_ _:_ What?

_Sherlock holds his phone out to him. A mobile phone number is visible on the screen._

SHERLOCK: Memorise.

_Victor frowns at the screen. He blinks several times._

SHERLOCK _(impatiently):_ Got it?

VICTOR : Yeah... yeah, got it.

SHERLOCK: Good. _(He pockets his phone again.)_ Do exactly what they tell you. And stay out of sight. I’ll be in touch. _(He picks up the crumpled mask and thrusts it at Victor.)_ Here.

_Victor sits up, takes what is left of his disguise and stuffs it under his jacket with trembling hands. Sherlock then picks up the jagged piece of brick that Victor tried to hit him with earlier, holds it out to him, turns his head sideways and pushes the hair back from his forehead with his left._

SHERLOCK: And now hit me again. Properly, this time.

VICTOR _(stupidly):_ What? Why?

SHERLOCK _(with a sigh):_ Never mind. _(He jerks his head in the direction of the road.)_ Just run.

_Victor nods and struggles to his feet. He gives Sherlock one last look of mingled fear, confusion and tentative gratitude, then disappears into the darkness, his footsteps very loud in the silence at first, but receding and fading very quickly. The moment he has started moving away, Sherlock, still squatting on the ground, returns his attention to the piece of brick in his hand. He fingers his temple for the spot where Victor grazed him earlier, and having found it, runs the sharp edge of the brick back and forth across it. He screws up his face in discomfort, but keeps going until the tips of his fingers come away smeared with blood. Then he drops the brick and lets himself slump forward onto the ground. The running footsteps of Lestrade and the armed officers can already be heard approaching from the direction of the railway line._

 

 _**In the present,** _ _John has folded his arms and is looking at Sherlock so coldly that Sherlock inadvertently grimaces._

JOHN: And you let him get away just because it was _him._

SHERLOCK _(after a moment, equally frostily)_ : I told you that you’d have preferred the lies.

JOHN: You let one of the country’s most wanted cyber criminals get away just because at some point in your life, he happened to be your friend.

VICTOR _(almost timidly)_ : Can I say something?

SHERLOCK and JOHN _(simultaneously, without taking their eyes off each other):_ No.

_Victor closes his mouth again._

JOHN: And now you’re plotting to get him to safety.

SHERLOCK: Quite correct.

JOHN: And you seriously expect me to go along with that?

SHERLOCK: No. But I did expect a bit of gratitude.

JOHN: _Gratitude?_

SHERLOCK _(smiling humourlessly)_ : Yes. Less than ten minutes ago, you seemed desperate to prove that I can trust you to keep my secrets. This is your chance.

JOHN _(shaking his head):_ Sherlock, we’re talking about a man who was going to cause a bloodbath in central London.

SHERLOCK: But there will be no bloodbath in central London, John. And now show a bit of common decency and help me sit him down somewhere, and take a look at his arm.

_Victor looks at Sherlock in surprise. So does John. Then John’s eyes shift from Sherlock to Victor, and it becomes evident that Victor is holding his right arm at a very unnaturally stiff angle, pressing it against his side as if to contain some pain it is causing him. John hesitates._

JOHN: Alright. I look at his arm, and then we turn him in?

SHERLOCK: Then we have tea, and talk.

JOHN _(sarcastically)_ : Oh, right? When did we become a safe house for terrorists? Must have missed that somehow.

SHERLOCK _(slowly losing his patience)_ : It wouldn’t exactly be the first time you’ve missed something, John.

_John opens his mouth to reply, then stops himself. He exhales sharply, deeply hurt. Sherlock grimaces._

SHERLOCK _(in an appeasing tone_ ): Look, John, all I want is a bit of time to get some answers. All we’re going to do is give him the chance to tell us what really happened. The only chance he’ll ever get, in all likelihood. Once the Americans get their hands on him, nobody’s going to listen any more.

_At this, Victor raises his head sharply and looks at Sherlock in alarm._

JOHN _(flaring up again)_ : Oh, 221B Baker Street versus the United States of America, is it? Sorry, Sherlock, I’m out. If that’s what you’re going to turn it into, do it on your own. I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life in exile in Moscow, or stranded in an Ecuadorian embassy, no matter how noble the cause.

_A half-smile tugs at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth._

SHERLOCK: If it has to be an embassy, you can trust _me_ to be clever enough to pick one that has access to a rooftop, for an airlift to safety.

JOHN: This isn’t funny.

SHERLOCK _(drily):_ He’d probably agree .Come on, Victor.

_He turns away and walks over to the armchairs in front of the fireplace. After a quick, uncertain glance at John, Victor follows him. Sherlock makes a gesture with his hand as if to invite Victor to sit down in John’s chair, then changes his mind and waves him to his own chair instead. John, who has remained standing near the door, raises his eyebrows. Victor, unaware of this, sits down in Sherlock’s chair, trying but failing to suppress a sigh._

SHERLOCK: Right. Your arm. _(Over his shoulder)_ John?

_John, with a visible effort, reminds himself of his professional pride and duty, comes to life again and joins the other two. Victor has unbuttoned the front of his overalls and shrugs out of the right sleeve. He wears a faded black t-shirt underneath. A frayed green and blue patterned bandanna has been wound around his bare forearm in a makeshift bandage. John sits down on the edge of the low coffee table between the chairs, reaches for the knot and unties it. He wrinkles his nose at the sight of what is underneath._

JOHN: Good grief.

SHERLOCK _(looking over John’s shoulder)_ _:_ Cigarette burns?

_He glances enquiringly at Victor. Victor grimaces and nods._

JOHN _(to Sherlock)_ _:_ Several days old. But look at them now. Healthcare on the Homeless Network definitely needs improving.

SHERLOCK _(lightly):_ Oh, I’m sure he could do worse on the NHS.

_John gives Sherlock a very dark look._

SHERLOCK _(sincerely)_ : Sorry.

_John returns his attention to Victor’s arm, holding it in both his own hands and gently turning it this way and that, frowning at the weeping red spots on it._

VICTOR _(to Sherlock)_ : Homeless Network?

SHERLOCK: Yep. The people you were staying with. Float all around the city, here now and gone the next moment, carry messages and keep their eyes open for me. They organise themselves, and reorganise randomly for every new job. Very useful to me. And very hard to keep track of for anyone else.

VICTOR _(impressed)_ : Bit like a real life Tor?  
  
SHERLOCK: Exactly.

JOHN: I need my bag.

SHERLOCK: I’ll get it.

_He walks off into the kitchen, and on into the passage leading to the bathroom._

JOHN _(to Victor, nodding towards his arm):_ You seem to have lived an interesting life lately.

VICTOR: Nice way of putting it.

JOHN: When exactly did that happen?

VICTOR: Two nights ago.

JOHN: Had a tetanus shot recently?

VICTOR _(with a shrug)_ : When I was a kid, I s’pose.

_John shakes his head, then nods at the burn marks again._

JOHN: Who did that? And why?

_Victor doesn’t reply immediately. Sherlock reappears from the direction of the kitchen, carrying John’s doctor’s bag._

SHERLOCK _(to Victor):_ Go on, tell him. Whoever it was, he’s either dead now, or in prison.

_Victor stares at him. Sherlock hands the bag to John._

SHERLOCK _(to Victor):_ You’re on your own now. And you decide whether that’s bad news or good news.

_Victor exhales sharply, leans back in the chair and closes his eyes. John, in the meantime, has found in his bag what he needs to care for Victor’s hurts, and silently gets to work. Sherlock watches them for a moment, then walks off into the kitchen again and puts the kettle on._

 

 _**Some moments later,** _ _John is giving the end of a neat white bandage around Victor’s arm a last tweak to fix it in place._

VICTOR _(relieved):_ Thank you.

JOHN _(rather stiffly)_ : Not at all.

_Sherlock comes back out of the kitchen, carrying three mugs of tea._

JOHN _(to Sherlock):_ I don’t like how cold he feels.

SHERLOCK: This may help.

_Victor receives one of the mugs and immediately closes both hands around it to warm his fingers. John zips up his bag, pushes it under the coffee table, and walks over to sit down in his own armchair with his arms crossed. Sherlock gets a chair for himself from the dining table. When they have all settled down, there is a moment of uncomfortable silence. Then Victor nods at the chessboard._

VICTOR _(to Sherlock, attempting a light tone):_ You any better at it now?

SHERLOCK: Try me. _(With a glance at John)_ I’ve had some practice.

VICTOR _(taking in the set-up on the chessboard with a single look):_ Then you know what’s gonna happen there next.

SHERLOCK: You tell me.

VICTOR: White’s gonna checkmate Black in four moves, and there’s absolutely nothing Black can do to stop it.

SHERLOCK _(taking a sip of his tea)_ : A lot can happen in four moves.

VICTOR _(doubtfully):_ Like what?

SHERLOCK: Black could make up his mind to stop being Black.

VICTOR _(after a moment):_ And who’s gonna believe him?

SHERLOCK _(with a shrug):_ Worth a try.

VICTOR: Is your brother gonna believe it?

_Sherlock stares at him, genuinely surprised._

SHERLOCK: My brother?

VICTOR: Yeah, of course. Oh, come on. Silly first name, same last name. Couldn’t possibly be a coincidence.

_Sherlock smiles in grudging approval._

SHERLOCK: He’ll not be pleased to hear that his name’s a household word in Russian cyber crime circles.

VICTOR: Oh, it isn’t. I never heard it until I got back here. _(With a wry grin)_ Would probably not have come at all if I had. I once had a Holmes hot on my trail, and it was the worst night of my life. I'd have known that I wouldn’t stand a chance with two of them at once.

SHERLOCK _(amused)_ : But he really wasn’t. Hot on your trail, I mean. I know you thought he was, but he was really being unspeakably slow and stupid.

VICTOR _(suddenly serious):_ And I’ve just realised that it wasn’t actually the worst night of my life, either.

_He gives an involuntary shudder._

SHERLOCK: Right, tell us about the worst one, then. I still have questions. _(With a mischievous glance in John's direction)_ And I think it’s also time to get rid of that disapproving frown on John’s face, before it becomes permanently ingrained.

_In spite of himself, John changes his facial expression to something more neutral._

SHERLOCK: So, who was it that killed the unhappy fourth of your little band, Arbo or Yevgeny?

VICTOR: What makes you so sure it wasn't me?

SHERLOCK: You? You were probably on your hands and knees at the time, vomiting your heart out from the pain in your arm and the stench of your burned skin. Not quite the state in which to commit cold-blooded murder.

JOHN _(to Sherlock, aghast):_ Are you saying that his own cronies did that to him?

_He shifts his glance from Sherlock to Victor, waiting for confirmation. Victor nods, avoiding John's eyes._

VICTOR: I - I don’t know where to start, really. I suppose you know about the car bomb. Well, Pavel and I didn’t, not until we got here and started messing with the CCTV. _(To Sherlock, urgently)_ Believe me, I really didn’t know. Can you see that?

SHERLOCK: I can see that you’re far too clever to knowingly join a suicide mission like that. Please tell me that you haven’t let any other considerations get in the way.

VICTOR: We _didn't_ know. Pavel and I just got asked whether we thought we could do it, the cameras, I mean, and we were -

JOHN _(in a disapproving tone):_ \- flattered?

VICTOR: Yeah, probably. It was something new, to do it on the spot, had never been done before. Worked a treat, by the way. But we thought that was all there was to it, like we said in the video. Only when we got here, Arbo told us that we were actually doing a countdown to something big, to do with a camera on Hastings Street. It was my idea then, to do it with the famous victories. We had quite a bit of fun imagining how it would drive them totally mad, trying to figure out a technical connection between all those places, and finding absolutely none.

SHERLOCK: Worked a treat, too.

VICTOR: Until you came along, I s’pose?

_Sherlock shrugs._

VICTOR _(speaking rather quickly now, obviously glad to unburden himself):_ And we were down to Blenheim, I think, when Arbo and Yevgeny told us what would actually happen when we got to Hastings. That we were really just providing a cover for those guys who were going to plant the actual bomb, so they wouldn't be caught doing it on CCTV. I admit that I didn’t take it seriously at first. You know, we’ve been a bit loud-mouthed now and again, it’s part of the game. But I could tell that the idea was really getting Pavel down, and they must have noticed it, too, although he did his best to hide it. Even went on reconnaissance for us for Armada, next evening, as planned. But that night, or rather early morning, when we were on our way back from that one, Pavel cracked. We were all pretty antsy at that point, having slept rough and barely eaten but drunk far too much for almost a week. Pavel started saying that if it would actually cost people’s lives, we couldn’t do it, and that he wanted out. We had just crossed that bridge over the A2, and Yevgeny stopped the van right after it. We all got out for a smoke, to calm down a bit. Yevgeny told Pavel that he wanted to show him something, so they walked back onto the bridge. Arbo and I stayed behind, watching. It was very dark up there, and I s’pose I'm glad I didn't see exactly what was going on, except that they leant on the railing and looked at the cars passing under them. Then Yevgeny made a move as if to put his arm around Pavel's shoulders, but that wasn't what he was doing, because there was a knife in his hand and –

_He breaks off, looking ill. When he continues, his voice is trembling._

VICTOR: - and all I could see was Pavel slumping forward over the rail, and Yevgeny hooking his arms around him and toppling him right over. I just stood there, frozen to the spot, I couldn't believe my eyes. And then Arbo turned to me and said, “Having second thoughts, too?”, and when I didn't say “No” quickly enough, he smiled, he actually smiled, and he said, “Give me your arm.” _(He grimaces at the memory.)_ Andthe next thing I remember is being in the back of the van again, sick like a dog and probably howling like one, too, hoping that it was all just a nightmare, but it wasn't, because I was awake and it still went on and on.

_He shudders again. Another silence. John looks appalled, Sherlock grimly satisfied at having been right._

VICTOR _(bitterly):_ Pavel was a decent bloke, and he didn't deserve to die. If he really gave us away, he did the right thing, and I should have done the same, but I didn't realise that until it was too late. And by then I'd learned not to even think about it anymore. _(He exchanges a look with Sherlock.)_ I'm no hero, I'm afraid.

SHERLOCK _(drily):_ That's alright. I really can't recommend it. _(A pause.)_ That’s a recent insight, though, isn’t it? You not being a hero after all?

VICTOR: Is there a point in trying to explain any of it?

SHERLOCK: You can try and explain to me how you could have been so incredibly stupid as to appear in that video in the first place.

VICTOR _(with a lopsided grin):_ Because I had a subconscious wish to see you again?

_Neither Sherlock nor John so much as smiles._

VICTOR _(resigned):_ Alright. Hubris, I think it was. It's – I don't know, it's hard to put into words. When I started, it was just a game. I was in California at the time, first with McAfee and then with Symantec, and I was just having fun running tests and annoying rival companies. It did seem pointless after a while though. Like playing chess against yourself.

_Sherlock and John exchange a look._

VICTOR: So I branched out a bit, looking for things that I thought were really worthwhile. That’s when I first got in touch with the Tunisians. And when you've done that sort of stuff for a couple of years, and when you see what you can do, what you can change, when you have that power to create and destroy at will, and you always get away with it, you start thinking of yourself as invincible. D’you know what I mean?

_John glances at Sherlock, but Sherlock’s eyes are on Victor, his expression unreadable._

VICTOR: It's like a high, only better, because there's no need to come down. You just go on and on, move on to new projects, try out new tricks, get away with those, too, build up a reputation, get recommended by the really big names... and before you know it, you're -

JOHN: - back in London, with a bunch of common terrorists.

VICTOR _(to Sherlock, slightly annoyed):_ There _is_ no point, is there?

JOHN _(sternly):_ I just believe that whatever the problem is, planting a car bomb can’t possibly be the solution, ever. And I sincerely hope that I'm not the only person in this room who thinks so.

SHERLOCK _(to Victor):_ And I should probably tell you that John has spent more than four years of his life as a doctor trying to reassemble shredded body parts into human shapes in Afghanistan. Just so you know where he’s coming from.

VICTOR: I never said I liked the idea, you know. But can’t you understand the anger behind it? It’s bad enough, isn’t it, how the big corporations keep grabbing our data and try and monopolize the internet to serve their own interests, but doesn’t it make you sick when even the institutions that were originally created for the very purpose of protecting civil liberties like -

SHERLOCK _(grimacing in distaste):_ Stop preaching, _please_. It’s ridiculous.

VICTOR _(after a moment, sincerely):_ Sorry.

_He runs a hand over his pale face. There is another silence._

VICTOR _(to Sherlock)_ : It’s - it’s absurd, isn’t it? You and me sitting here. I never thought our paths would cross again. Stupid of me, really. I could’ve guessed that I’d end up as one of your clients one day, if I kept going down that road. I knew what you were doing. _(To John)_ I really like your blog. Followed it right from the start. Even left a little greeting there, sometime around Christmas, four or five years ago.

SHERLOCK _(amused):_ 1895?

VICTOR: Exactly.

_John stares at him, then turns to Sherlock with a look of almost comic indignation on his face._

JOHN: On top of all the rest, now he’s hacked _my blog_ , too?

_Sherlock cracks up laughing. Victor grins tentatively. John shakes his head in disbelief._

SHERLOCK: OK, Victor, sorry, that’s it. Forget the car bomb. But he’ll never forgive you for that one. _(He glances at John, the earlier mischievous look back on his face.)_ Oh dear, and his revenge will be terrible. You know what he makes _me_ look like on his blog. Don’t hold out any hope that he’ll go easy on _you._

VICTOR _(soberly):_ That’s alright. I know I fucked up royally, and if I could see a way to make it good, I’d do it.

SHERLOCK _(suddenly serious again)_ : And that is my last question answered. _(He glances at his watch.)_ So now -

JOHN _(leaning forward in his chair, urgently):_ Now he's got to turn himself in, Sherlock. If he didn't kill Pavel, in fact if he thought that Pavel did the right thing, then all he’s guilty of is -

SHERLOCK: - practically everything listed in the Computer Misuse Act three times over, and among it seven cases of unauthorised computer access and unauthorised computer access with intent to commit further offences in the past week alone. Doesn't make for a very cheerful prospect. No, I'm afraid turning him in just like that and simply hoping for leniency is out of the question, John. He's dug himself in too deep for that. And besides, it’s very likely that the moment he shows his face anywhere official, the Americans will come swooping down and carry him off in their claws, international law and the sovereignty of the United Kingdom be damned.

VICTOR _(very much disconcerted):_ What do you mean?

SHERLOCK: Oh, just that they're not exactly amused by your involvement in the plot to blow up the NSA's European headquarters. It's the kind of thing that they usually acknowledge with one of those ridiculously long sentences that, if they were hereditary, would keep even your grandchildren in prison until they're old and grey. That is, if they extend the courtesy of a trial to you at all. I hear they don’t always bother, with foreigners.

VICTOR: But –

SHERLOCK _(darkly):_ Not to mention what may happen once they start seeing you as a possible source of further information.

VICTOR: But I’m a British national. They can’t possibly extradite me to the U.S.

_His voice is trembling again now, and not only his voice._

SHERLOCK: I wouldn’t be so sure about that. You’ve made a quite a point of being Russian over the past year. Small wonder if they’ve ticked the wrong box where it says “nationality” on the form.

VICTOR _(aghast)_ : They can’t – they just can’t –

_He breaks off, looking desperately from Sherlock to John and back. Neither of them responds._

VICTOR _(after a moment):_ So what happens now?

SHERLOCK: Now I’m buying you time. You’re going with Rob, or whoever else he recruits for the job, to a relatively safe place until I’ve worked something out.

VICTOR _(hopefully)_ : You’re gonna get me out of the country?

SHERLOCK: Certainly not. What good would that do?

_Victor looks crestfallen._

VICTOR: So I’m just to sit still til they come and get me?

SHERLOCK: You said you were my client. My job is to give advice. I just did. Take it or leave it.

_Victor runs his hand over his face again. He’s sweating heavily now, and his eyes have a slightly glassy look to them. There is the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs. Victor gives a start, but it is only Rob who appears in the open doorway a moment later, looking content._

SHERLOCK _(to Rob):_ All sorted?

ROB: Yep.

SHERLOCK _(to Victor):_ So?

VICTOR _(in a small voice):_ Alright.

_He stands up. Sherlock and John follow suit._

SHERLOCK _(to Rob):_ Make sure he gets there after dark. _(To Victor)_ Trust them implicitly. Tell them as much or as little as you like, but if I were you, I'd tell them everything. And don't get impatient. It may take a couple of days.

_Victor nods. For a moment, he seems on the verge of saying something, but then decides against it, and walks over to where Rob is waiting for him by the door. Rob picks up the ladder, the bucket and all the other tools._

ROB _(with a nod at The Wall)_ : It's really begging for a redo, though.

SHERLOCK: Not a top priority right now.

ROB: I’ll send you a quote.

SHERLOCK: Don’t bother.

_Rob and Victor exit the room and can be heard going downstairs. The front door bangs shut, and a moment later, a car can be heard driving away._

* * *


	4. The Warning

**_221B Baker Street. The living room._ ** _Later on the same day. Sherlock and John are both still there, but the roles seem to have been reversed since the morning, because now it is John who is sitting still, at his computer at the dining table, while Sherlock is keeping himself busy around the room, folding up the newspapers on the coffee table, putting all the chess pieces back in their proper places on the board and the board back onto a shelf, out of the way. John’s doctor’s bag has already disappeared, as has the Big Issue. Sherlock now picks up the three used tea mugs and takes them into the kitchen. He is about to soak all three of them in the sink, then changes his mind, leaves two of them standing on the kitchen table - next to a small heap of empty takeaway boxes - and only washes, dries and puts away the third._ _As he walks back into the living room, John very quickly and slightly guiltily clicks a couple of tabs closed on his computer._

SHERLOCK _(not even looking John's way):_ It's alright, you know. Just don't be too specific in your research.

JOHN _(testily):_ Yes, I figured as much.

_He clicks the tabs open again and goes back to his reading, his elbows propped on the table. Over his shoulder, we can see that he has pulled up some news articles with pictures of men in Guy Fawkes masks. Sherlock walks over to the shelf behind his armchair and stands there for a moment with his back turned to the room. Then, unnoticed by John, he opens the lid of his violin case - which was placed on the top shelf - and looks down thoughtfully at his instrument._

JOHN _(off-screen):_ How could that happen? How could anything like that possibly happen?

_Sherlock turns his head. At the dining table, John is running his hands through his hair and tugging at it in exasperation, his eyes still on the computer screen._

JOHN: I mean, how could anyone who played chess so well that he beat you at it every single time not see where he was heading?

_He raises his eyes from the computer screen to look across at Sherlock, slightly surprised to see his friend looking straight back him in silence. Then John’s gaze travels to the open violin case on the shelf. Sherlock turns back towards it and carefully closes the lid again, but lets his hands rest on it for a moment._

JOHN _(quietly):_ Don’t tell me you aren’t wondering, too.

_Sherlock shrugs._

JOHN: Doesn’t it drive _you_ mad?

SHERLOCK: I had my warning twenty-four hours ahead of you, you know.

_John takes his hands out of his hair and straightens up._

JOHN: Twenty-four hours? You mean you recognised him straight away? When we first saw that video?

SHERLOCK: Yes.

JOHN: Good God. _(He pauses, apparently thinking back to the meeting with the secret service men, and shakes his head.)_ Good God. You knew it all along, with all of them there, looking on? Mycroft and –

_He breaks off, struck by a new and obviously very worrying thought._

SHERLOCK: Mycroft never met him, John. Not even once.

_John looks relieved. Sherlock weaves out of his corner and sits down in his armchair._

JOHN: But how did you know? By his voice alone? In Russian?

SHERLOCK: Not as big a surprise as you might imagine. I knew he was born in Russia, and only came here as a child when his mother married Mr Trevor and he adopted the boy.

JOHN: You didn't tell me that.

SHERLOCK: He never told me either. But in any case, here's your answer why they didn't make that video in English. His lack of an accent would have been a dead giveaway. Together with the fact that he loves playing havoc with IT security firms, which meant he had to be a bad apple from their own ranks, Mycroft's people would have taken no more than two or three hours to identify him positively.

JOHN _(deeply disquieted again):_ They may yet. And then?

SHERLOCK _(with a sudden note of impatience in his voice):_ John, as you said yourself, at some point in _my_ life, he happened to be _my_ friend. It's very kind of you to take an interest in the matter, but there's no need to get worked up about it.

JOHN: It's just that – it's like it isn't even the same person any more, is it?

SHERLOCK: Are you still the same person that you were fifteen years ago?

JOHN _(after a moment's pause):_ I’m not that screwed up, I think.

SHERLOCK _(with brutal honesty):_ Sheer damn luck.

_In the ensuing silence, the noise of a car approaching in the street outside can be heard clearly. It stops right outside the house, the engine running. John gets up and glances out of the window._

JOHN _(alarmed):_ Sherlock -

SHERLOCK ( _calmly):_ Don't worry, John. It was bound to happen. _(With a nod at John's computer)_ But you might want to click all that away again now.

_John sighs, but obediently returns to his place at the table and quickly clicks his way back until only his own blog fills the screen. For the second time today, there is a ring at the bell, the opening of the front door, the sound of footsteps on the stairs, of a single visitor this time, and Mycroft Holmes stands in the open doorway of the living room._

SHERLOCK _(in an off-hand tone):_ And what brings _you_ here today?

MYCROFT _(raising his eyebrows):_ Brotherly concern.

_Sherlock pulls a face. Mycroft, by way of greeting, nods to John, enters the room and approaches Sherlock in his chair, coming to a halt only when there are no more than one or two paces between them, so close that Sherlock has to tilt back his head to look Mycroft in the eyes. The two brothers regard each other in silence for a moment, each searching the other's face._

MYCROFT: I hear you got hurt. In the line of _duty. (He emphasises the last word ever so slightly.)_ Though I'm not sure who commissioned you to place yourself in the front-line like that. 

_He puts his head to one side and reaches out with his hand as if to gently brush aside the curl of Sherlock's hair that half-covers the patch of plaster on his temple. Sherlock jerks his head aside at the last moment, looking daggers at his brother. Mycroft lets the matter rest, turns away and sits down uninvited in John's chair._

MYCROFT: And I came to tell you that our city is safe again now from any threat.

SHERLOCK: I'm pleased to hear it.

MYCROFT: I'm glad you are.

_A pause._

SHERLOCK: So Yevgeny's decided to cooperate after all?

MYCROFT: Oh, not he. But his phone has proved a treasure trove. By tonight, we’ll have them all.

SHERLOCK: You mean the actual bombers?

MYCROFT: _All,_ I said. _(He crosses his legs.)_ And I'm glad you mentioned cooperation just now.

SHERLOCK: Why?

MYCROFT: Because I'm used to unwilling cooperation on _your_ part, and you gave us a particularly fine example of that yesterday morning. 

SHERLOCK: Oh, come on. You can't make me spend an hour in the company of people like that and then grudge me a little bit of fun.

MYCROFT _(unsmiling):_ I'm not talking about the fun. I'm talking about the silences.

SHERLOCK: What silences?

MYCROFT: Yours. Your remarkably _selective_ silences.

SHERLOCK _(frowning):_ You asked me to find them for you, and I did.

MYCROFT: Oh, yes. You were forthcoming enough on most points, but when silences accumulate, over a very short period of time and on one particular issue, I believe they require an explanation. _(He gives a short, humourless laugh.)_ “Lack of incentive”, indeed.

SHERLOCK: And what exactly do you expect me to say to that?

MYCROFT: Nothing at all. My questions are already answered, I believe. All but one.

_Rather abruptly, Sherlock gets up from his chair._

SHERLOCK: I never told you a single lie, if that's what you're accusing me of.

MYCROFT _(with unshakable calm):_ Oh, on the contrary. I acknowledge that you picked your way between truths, half-truths and untruths with masterly caution that morning.

SHERLOCK _(sarcastically):_ I had an excellent teacher.

_Mycroft smiles sourly, then folds his hands, putting the tips of his fingers together._

MYCROFT: But there is a very fine line, Sherlock, between being uncooperative and actively sabotaging my work.

SHERLOCK: I know that.

MYCROFT: Then you also know that you overstepped it this time, and that is something I will not tolerate.

_They hold each other's gaze for a moment, silent and unblinking. Then Mycroft exhales audibly, rises from his chair, too, and starts pacing up and down the room. Sherlock, motionless himself, follows him with his eyes._

MYCROFT _(conversationally):_ This morning, I had a little chat with our mutual friend, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Your name didn’t appear in the official report, of course, but when I questioned him specifically about your role in the Kentish Town operation, he was only too happy to share his frustration at that most unfortunate streak of bad luck on your part. So unfortunate, in fact, that even he finally began to wonder whether there might not have been a human agency at work to gently push the fortunes in a particular direction. _(He stops pacing and turns back towards his brother.)_ From that point onwards, we were on the home straight. You will forgive me for saying so, but there aren’t many people in the world for whom you would literally slice your head open. _(With a sidelong glance at John)_ One of them you had very ingeniously put out of action yourself, so it didn't take a very difficult deduction to arrive at the identity of the other one.

SHERLOCK _(glancing at his watch, unperturbed):_ It’s almost three now. What have you been doing all day?

MYCROFT: I had _some_ research done before I came here. I wanted to be reasonably certain that it really was him. And once you start looking, there is quite a lot of interesting material to get caught up in.

_Sherlock smiles disdainfully. Mycroft rolls his eyes._

MYCROFT: Alright, you get to gloat for exactly five seconds over how long it took my people to establish a definite link between the former Cambridge undergraduate and Russia’s Kareem of questionable online fame. It is somewhat tenuous even now, but I'm finding it serviceable enough for my purposes.

SHERLOCK _(drily):_ It's a bother, isn't it, how many of our best IT people are Russian born. Quite a large database to comb through, I assume. 

MYCROFT: And quite a lot of vegetarian asthmatics, too.

SHERLOCK: Not all of them short-sighted, though.

MYCROFT: And that _was_ five seconds. _(He folds his arms.)_ So. I’m going to ask you this but once. Where is he?

SHERLOCK: How should I know? Probably out of the country by now.

MYCROFT: We know that he isn’t.

SHERLOCK: And he wouldn’t be wise to try, would he?

MYCROFT: You tell him so from me.

SHERLOCK: Not going to do you that favour.

MYCROFT: Fine. I don’t mind telling _you_ that someone is getting a little impatient by now. I just hope you won’t find yourself wishing that you’d answered that question when it was still me asking it.

_John, who has been listening intently, glances at Sherlock, looking extremely uncomfortable, but Sherlock doesn't seem particularly impressed. Mycroft uncrosses his arms and takes another step towards his brother, speaking quietly but very intently now._

MYCROFT: I’m not sure whether you’re aware of it, Sherlock, but you’re playing with fire. There are powers involved in this that even I have no control over. Ultimately, they will do what they please and they will take what they want. And it would give me no great pleasure to watch you burn yourself in the process. _(He squares his shoulders and raises his chin.)_ As your brother, I feel it is my duty to warn you not to stand in their way.

SHERLOCK _(scathingly_ ): How very touching. In that case, as a loyal subject of Her Majesty the Queen, I feel it is my duty to remind you whom _you_ serve.

_A shadow passes across Mycroft's face, but it is gone again in the blink of an eye._

SHERLOCK: And by the way, as a taxpayer, I would like to register my astonishment at the shocking waste of public funds currently taking place in Newcastle upon Tyne. Tell your people to leave Violet Westbury and her family alone. There is no point in squandering valuable resources on a twenty-four hour surveillance of honest law-abiding citizens. They have nothing whatsoever to do with this.

_Mycroft smiles a very thin-lipped smile._

MYCROFT: I’m taking no chances, little brother. Not with you.

SHERLOCK: You recruited me to this in the first place. Don’t blame me for taking an interest in how it’s going to end. 

MYCROFT _(smoothly, still smiling)_ : And don’t I know just how much you hate leaving a case unsolved.

_He turns on his heel and stalks out of the room, leaving Sherlock looking pensive, and John looking extremely nervous. Neither of them moves or speaks until they have heard Mycroft leave the house. Then -_

JOHN _(in a very tense voice):_ He knows. He bloody knows.

SHERLOCK: Nonsense. He doesn’t, and it's driving him up the wall.

_He steps over to the window to watch Mycroft being driven away in his car._

JOHN: But it’s only a matter of time until he finds out. And he’s going to spare no tricks in getting there.

_Sherlock turns back to his friend, his eyes suddenly very bright, his whole face alight with a gleeful smile. He looks as if he can barely keep himself from rubbing his hands in happy anticipation._

SHERLOCK: I know. It’s brilliant.

_John looks at his friend as if the latter has taken leave of his senses._

JOHN _(after a moment):_ I need some fresh air.

_And he gets up and exits the room in a hurry._

 

* * *

 

 **_The interior of a small, cosy, unsophisticated Indian restaurant._ ** _It is early evening, just getting dark. Sherlock is sitting alone at one of the tables with a glass of water in front of him, typing on his phone. The door opens, and in walks John. He glances around, spots Sherlock and joins him at the table. Sherlock looks up and smiles. John nods in response, takes off his jacket, puts it over the back of an empty chair and sits down. Sherlock pockets his phone._

JOHN: Why are we meeting here?

_Sherlock opens his mouth to reply._

JOHN _(still unsmiling)_ : And no, not because the chicken tikka is excellent.

SHERLOCK _(a little disappointed):_ It is, you know. Alright. Because I wanted to give Mycroft’s lackeys the chance to bug Baker Street.

JOHN _(appalled):_ D’you really think he’d do that?  
  
SHERLOCK: He probably would, if he thought there was a point. That’s exactly why I’m making it so insultingly easy for them. Once they realise that, they’ll know that there _is_ no point, and they’ll just leave it be.

_John shakes his head. Sherlock takes a sip of his water and flips open the menu._

SHERLOCK: Right. What are you having?

JOHN: I’m not sure I’m having anything.

SHERLOCK: Why not?

JOHN: Because you’ve just as good as openly declared war on the most dangerous man I’ll ever meet. Are you surprised that it’s spoiled my appetite?

SHERLOCK _(with a shrug):_ Doesn’t spoil mine.

_His eyes return to the menu._

JOHN _(leaning forward in his chair, quietly):_ Sherlock, are you sure this is a battle you can win?

SHERLOCK _(without looking up):_ The first few skirmishes didn't go too badly, did they?

JOHN _(unconvinced):_ Seriously?

_Sherlock raises his head and meets John’s eyes._

JOHN: And I’m not asking because I’d need to see a street named after you.

SHERLOCK: Oh, Holmes Road? No point. Already exists.

JOHN _(momentarily distracted):_ Really? 

SHERLOCK: Holmes Road, yeah. We actually passed it on our way to the recycling centre last night. Wasn’t named after me though. Nor after Mycroft, for that matter.

JOHN: Are you sure you can win against him?

SHERLOCK: Depends on how you define winning.

_John shifts uncomfortably in his chair._

JOHN: It’s just that I didn’t know he could make me feel so – _(He runs a finger along the inside of his collar as if it is too tight.)_ D’you know what I mean?

SHERLOCK: Yes. He has that effect on most people. You’re usually an exception.

JOHN: Doesn’t it worry you that I’m not, right now?

SHERLOCK: No. Your current degree of unease is a very good indicator of his own discomfort. He always overdoes it when he’s nervous.

JOHN: Nervous? Him?

SHERLOCK: Oh yes. _(Darkly)_ And he’ll regret it yet that he let me see that.

**_A little later,_ ** _they – including John, obviously - have ordered and eaten their dinner, and the waiter has just taken away their empty plates. John leans back in his chair._

JOHN _(his mind apparently still on the confrontation with Mycroft, but sounding a bit more relaxed now):_ Do you really ever think of yourself as a taxpayer?

SHERLOCK _(in a dignified tone, eyebrows raised)_ : Of course! _(Back to normal)_ Well, once a year anyway.

JOHN: I somehow can’t see you filling in hundreds of forms for the inland revenue, even just once a year.

SHERLOCK: Doesn’t mean I cheat. _(With genuine irritation)_ What were you thinking?

_John shrugs._

SHERLOCK: Alright, want to hear a funny story? Way back when I climbed over the tax allowance threshold for the first time - a memorable moment in my career, I assure you -   I thought I’d cut a bit of red tape, so I calculated my income tax myself, as a mental exercise, and just sent them a cheque.

JOHN: And they let you get away with that?

SHERLOCK: Not at first. They threw a tantrum and gave me a fine and almost sent the police over to bully me into submitting all the forms and receipts and what have you. But when the result turned out to be, to the penny, what I’d already paid them anyway, they were content with the cheque, and have been ever since. Except for the two years when I was dead. I got fined again then.

JOHN _(grinning):_ What for?

_He takes a sip of his water._

SHERLOCK: Moonlighting.

_John almost snorts his water all over the table. Sherlock wordlessly hands him a paper napkin._

JOHN _(dabbing himself dry):_ Thanks. You know, talking of which, I’ve just wondered where I come into it all. We’ve never bothered to work it out properly, have we, all those months when I didn’t have a regular job of my own. 

SHERLOCK: Oh, it’s fine. I think you just ranked as my housewife.

_They both crack up this time, giggling like schoolboys. Then John wipes his eyes and shakes his head._

JOHN: Alright. So, what’s the plan now?

SHERLOCK: Now, or rather tomorrow, we go and ruin one or two more marriages, get a senior partner of a well-known accounting firm sacked and present an angry father with a reason to disinherit his daughter. In short, we’ll behave just like any other respectable citizen. I also have a dentist’s appointment that I’ve put off far too long, and you could do with a haircut.

JOHN _(self-consciously running his hand through his hair):_ What?

SHERLOCK: OK, maybe next week.

JOHN _(in a low voice):_ You promised someone to work something out.

SHERLOCK: Yes, but there’s only so much pro bono work you can do in a week if you don't want to get into the red. _(Seeing John’s face, in a more serious tone)_ What's it to you, by the way?

_John takes his time to reply. Then -_

JOHN _(with a shrug):_ It's a case. An interesting case. A still unsolved case. That's always been enough to make it seem worthwhile, hasn't it? _  
_

_Sherlock smiles._

_* * *_


	5. The Journey

**_We fast-forward through the following two days_** _, starting with an elderly couple sitting on the sofa in the living room at 221B Baker Street, he in a traditional shalwar kameez, she with her head covered with a scarf. The man is frowning at a photograph of a very pretty black-haired teenage girl which he holds in his hand, while his wife is dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. John looks on sympathetically. Sherlock is at his computer, a section of a street-map visible on the screen._

_After that, a living room in a stylish converted loft, furnished in a top of the range but very clinical modern fashion. An apparently well-to-do couple are sitting in armchairs - she an elegant Asian lady, he a Western man in an expensive suit – and watching apprehensively as Sherlock paces up and down, explaining something to them. When Sherlock finishes, the lady starts crying hysterically, while her husband looks suddenly rather small and hangdog._

_Next, we jump to Sherlock and John in a cab. It’s getting dark outside. Sherlock is typing on his phone, John is suppressing a yawn._

_Then we’re in a kebab shop, Sherlock and John sitting at a table opposite the teenage girl we saw earlier in the photograph, and next to her, a young oriental man, holding hands with her and looking defiant while they listen to John talking to them earnestly. Sherlock is looking out of the window, drumming his fingers on the table top._

_The next morning, 221B Baker Street again, the elderly Pakistani couple and their daughter plus her boyfriend and another, older man who looks like the boy's father are all sitting round the coffee table, the girl and the boy still holding hands, the two fathers in an animated discussion, the mother of the girl beaming happily at what is obviously bound to become her son-in-law. Sherlock and John are looking on, odd men out in their own living room, John amused, Sherlock apparently inches away from exploding._

_Later, on a bench in a park, Sherlock and John are having fish and chips for lunch._

_In the afternoon, in a meeting-room in a glass-and-steel office building somewhere in the City, we see three men in suits, one of them sitting in a chair at a long conference table, his face buried in his hands, the other two towering over him, looking very angry. John and Sherlock hover by the window, John looking uncomfortable, Sherlock bored. A moment later, they’re leaving the building, stepping out of the automatic glass doors onto the pavement of a busy main road. John exhales noisily, puffing up his cheeks._

JOHN: That should keep us in the black for weeks to come. I didn’t know being respectable could be so exhausting.

SHERLOCK: You’re out of practice.

JOHN: Ha ha. By the way, how did the dentist go?

SHERLOCK _(avoiding John’s eyes):_ Had to skip that one. Ran out of time.

JOHN _(drily):_ Coward.

_Sherlock shrugs, but he looks a little guilty all the same._

JOHN: So, what’s next?

SHERLOCK: Now you can put up your feet and take a break. We’ll meet again at Barts, at half past five. 

JOHN: At Barts? Why?

_A bus comes roaring past them, the noise of the engine momentarily drowning out every other sound. John grimaces. Sherlock's lips form four short words. John does a double take. Then the bus is past._

JOHN: Did I just see what I thought I saw?

SHERLOCK _(with a conspiratorial smile)_ : Yes, you did.

_John smiles back._

 

* * *

 

 **_A platform in Barbican tube station,_ ** _later on the same day. A train comes rattling in and stops. The doors slide open. Among the descending passengers is John, apparently in a hurry. We follow him as he overtakes several other people and ascends the escalator on the right side, two high steps at a time. At the upper level of the station, at the other side of the ticket barrier, Sherlock stands waiting for him. John passes through and joins his friend._

JOHN: Sorry I'm late. Had to go back for something.

_Sherlock merely nods. They walk along a white-tiled corridor towards the exit of the tube station. Suddenly, Sherlock stops in his tracks. John stops, too._

JOHN _(uneasily):_ Anything wrong?

SHERLOCK: No. Listen.

_Close to the tiled wall, a young street musician has taken up his station. He has a portable CD player at his feet, which plays the orchestral part of a classical piece while he is doing the solo part live on his flute. Sherlock and John listen for a moment. John starts smiling as he realises what he's hearing._

JOHN: Good omen?

SHERLOCK _(with a shrug):_ I don't believe in omens.

_All the same, he stands there for the whole rest of the piece, his hands buried deeply in the pockets of his coat, before he moves on._

 

 **_Some minutes later,_ ** _they're in St. Bartholomew's Hospital, entering a brightly-lit long corridor through a pair of double glass doors and walking along it. John glances over his shoulder to make sure that they’re alone before he speaks._

JOHN _(in a low voice):_ So, what now?

SHERLOCK _(with a smile):_ Now the Merry Men of Baker Street will find out just how far they can go when the Sheriff of Nottingham's got his back turned.

_He mimics drawing a bow and loosing an arrow with whistling sound. John stops short and grimaces._

JOHN: Sherlock, can you _please_ stop making it sound like it's all just a game?

_Sherlock shrugs._

JOHN: And besides, you don't believe he'll actually turn his back even for one second now, do you? Remember, he said he was taking no chances with you.

SHERLOCK _(with a snort)_ : Nonsense. If he'd really meant that, we'd long have had Lestrade on our doorstep with a warrant for preventive custody. The fact that we've been able to come and go and do as we please for the past forty-eight hours is clear proof that Mycroft is actually taking enormous chances.

_They start walking again._

JOHN: But why would he?

SHERLOCK: He needs me to lead him to Victor.

JOHN: And you said that you weren't going to do him that favour.

SHERLOCK: Doesn't mean we can't go.

JOHN: And how exactly are we going to manage that?

SHERLOCK: We’ll fly under the radar. Move like ghosts, leave no traces.

JOHN: Interesting. How’s that going to work with Mycroft's people following you around wherever you go?

SHERLOCK: What people?

JOHN: Are you telling me there aren't any?

SHERLOCK: Oh, there'd be no point. I'd spot them straight away. Besides, why go to the trouble of keeping so many of them busy round the clock when he can get the same data so much more easily?

JOHN: How?

_Now Sherlock stops, takes his phone out of his pocket and holds it up._

SHERLOCK: These amazing little machines will tell anyone who thinks he has a right to access the data to within a few yards where exactly you are, at any time. No matter how you may try to disable anything labelled GPS in your settings, it's always there. Did you know that at MI5, they’ve actually almost halved their human resources for surveillance purposes since practically everyone started carrying around their own electronic tags, a couple of years ago? It's become incredibly easy for them to keep track of a person's movements, and as with every new technology, it will take a while yet before they fully realise the disadvantages. Besides, I checked. We spent most of yesterday and today running tests of that sort. There was a point in that packed schedule, you know. Wherever we go within London, as long as the phones are on, nobody's looking our way. So -

JOHN: - now we get rid of our phones?

SHERLOCK: Exactly.

_He starts walking again. John follows._

JOHN: But if we just leave them here, they'll start wondering very quickly why two healthy people would want to spend the night at a hospital.

SHERLOCK: Correct. That's why I want you to find Mike Stamford. You will give him your phone and ask him to proceed, when he comes off work tonight, straight to one of your favourite after-work haunts. On foot. Do make that absolutely clear, please, because he's not going to like that bit. But we can't have a record of his oyster card being used while yours wasn't. He is to stay there until shortly before closing time, which is when he will, from your phone and under your name, send me a text message – nicely adorned with a couple of typos that you’d never make in a sober state – to the effect that you'll be crashing at Mike's and won't be home before next morning. To which I will reply, ten minutes later, that it's all fine, because neither will I.

JOHN _(amused)_ : And where will your phone have gone by then?

SHERLOCK: Home with Molly Hooper.

JOHN: Now _that's_ going to raise a few eyebrows.

SHERLOCK _(with a shrug):_ Maybe. But it won't be considered a matter of national security, which is all we should be concerned with right now.

JOHN _(sarcastically):_ Yeah, what else?

SHERLOCK: What?

JOHN: You haven't spared a moment to imagine how she's going to feel, have you, typing that for you when it's not actually true at all?

_Sherlock stops short and frowns at his friend._

SHERLOCK: Yes, I have. Of course. _(He walks on. Over his shoulder)_ Honestly, John!

_John looks after him, slightly embarrassed and also more impressed than he would care to admit. He shakes his head and follows Sherlock down the rest of the corridor and through another double glass door. Behind it, they part company, John turning left to ascend a staircase, Sherlock turning right and disappearing round a corner._

 

 **_Some time later,_ ** _John is walking down yet another corridor inside Barts, one with a row of windows to one side. Outside, night has fallen. At the end of the corridor, there is a lift which John approaches. He pushes the button, and the metal doors slide open. He is about to enter, then thinks better of it and turns aside to a fire door next to the lift. It leads to a bare service staircase. John begins to descend it. A moment later, he comes out at level “-3” and opens another fire door, revealing the dim interior of an underground car-park. John steps out carefully and looks left and right._

SHERLOCK _(off-screen):_ Well done.

_John turns, looking for the source of the voice, and Sherlock appears from behind a nearby concrete pillar. John goes to join him._

SHERLOCK: Ghosts don't turn up on CCTV, do they?

JOHN: Not on ones in lifts, at any rate. What about car-parks?

SHERLOCK: There's a blind angle all along this wall, if we stay close to it. Ready? 

JOHN _(curtly)_ : Yes.

SHERLOCK: Meaning no?

JOHN _(looking slightly unhappy):_ I know it doesn't come under the heading of national security either, but I _am_ concerned about what may happen to Mike and Molly when Mycroft's people actually find out about that stunt with the phones. As they will, as soon as they realise that we're not likely to remain sitting in Mike's and Molly's houses while they go back to work tomorrow.

SHERLOCK: Oh, we might. Remember, you’ll be massively hung over.

JOHN: And you?

SHERLOCK: Just very exhausted, or something?

_John gives him a disapproving look._

SHERLOCK _(serious again)_ : Did Mike ask you why you wanted him to do it?

JOHN: Yes. I said it was for a case, of course.

SHERLOCK _(lightly):_ Well, that’s true, isn’t it? _(Seeing John still unconvinced)_ Cheer up, John. Tomorrow all this will be resolved. Now, did you have dinner in the canteen, as I suggested? We’ll probably miss breakfast.

JOHN _(distractedly):_ Yeah, I'm fine.

SHERLOCK: Good. Then it's time we took our places for the first stage of our journey.

 

* * *

 

**_Night-time. A road in an industrial area somewhere in Greater London_** _, dimly lit by orange street-lamps. A medium sized white van, with a blue logo depicting waves on it, comes driving slowly along it, then stops outside the closed gates to a large compound. The driver, a young man with dreadlocks and baggy jeans, gets out, walks around to the back doors, looks to the left and right to make sure there are no unwanted witnesses about, then opens the doors, but not very wide. John climbs out of the back of the van, then Sherlock. They exchange nods with the driver, but no words. The driver returns to the front of the vehicle, gets in and drives off. Sherlock takes John by the sleeve of his jacket and steers him in the direction of the closed gates. He takes a jump and pulls himself up, then reaches down to give John a hand up as well. They both drop down neatly on the other side and disappear into the darkness beyond._

_A moment later, Sherlock and John are crossing a wide empty space towards a long, low, windowless brick building, its walls covered almost entirely in ugly graffiti. When they reach the building, they turn left and walk along the wall._

JOHN _(in a low voice)_ : Where are we?

SHERLOCK: Willesden.

JOHN: But this isn't our final destination? That man Rob said it was halfway across the country.

SHERLOCK: It is.

JOHN: Then how do we get there?

SHERLOCK: By second class mail.

_They round the corner of the building, and before them, the side of a freight train’s carriage looms up out of the darkness. It is a closed wagon with a sliding door, and even in the dark, it can be seen to be painted bright red, with the yellow Royal Mail logo clearly visible on the door. As Sherlock and John approach it, we can see that it is only the first in a long row of carriages ranged along the loading platform that runs along the entire back side of the building._

**_The interior of the mail wagon,_ ** _in complete darkness. There is a rattle of a metal latch being pushed upwards, and the door slides open slowly, just far enough for a glimpse of the night sky outside, and then the shadowy figures of first Sherlock and then John climb through the opening into the wagon. Sherlock slides the door shut again, then takes a torchlight out of the pocket of his coat and shines it around. The forward half of the wagon is filled with brown and white mail sacks, tossed one above the other on the plain wooden floor. The other half is empty._

SHERLOCK: Make yourself comfortable. We'll be in here until about six in the morning. Might as well try and get some sleep, at least as long as we’re not moving yet. It's going to be rather noisy later on. Those bags may not be as soft as the ones in the laundry van, but they smell better.

JOHN: You sound like this is your favourite way of travelling.

SHERLOCK _(pulling a face):_ Oh, it really isn't. But low tech is the order of the day for ghosts, I’m afraid.

JOHN _(slightly alarmed)_ : But you've done this before? I mean, you actually know positively that it's going to work?

SHERLOCK: Sure. To start with, there’ll be two short stops on the way to load more mail, the last just after midnight, but then it’ll be a smooth ride until we stop at the last but one signal before the next mail terminal.

JOHN: What happens then?

SHERLOCK: Then we jump off.

JOHN: What if anyone comes in here while we stop?

SHERLOCK: Oh, nobody will. The first carriage always goes all the way to Scotland, and it won't be opened again until it gets there. Don’t look at me like that, John. I _have_ done it a couple of times. Way back before your time, whenever funds were really low. _(With a smile)_ As a matter of fact, I'm feeling rather nostalgic right now.

_John looks sceptically around the carriage, clearly having trouble imagining how it could possibly inspire such feelings._

 

 **_Hours later,_ ** _the mail train is moving through the night with an almighty rumbling and rattling noise. John and Sherlock, visible only in vague outline in the almost complete darkness, have made themselves a nest in the middle of the stacked mail sacks. John is lying on his back, with his hands behind his head, his eyes wide open. Sherlock is curled up on his side, facing away from John, by all appearances sleeping like a baby. The train slows down, passes a couple of points, swaying from side to side, and comes to a shuddering halt, the brakes screeching. Sherlock moves in his sleep and turns over, bumping into John. John, not particularly gently, frees his left arm._

JOHN _(whispering):_ Sherlock?

SHERLOCK _(without opening his eyes)_ : Mmh?

JOHN: Don't you feel the cold?  
  
SHERLOCK _(his voice slurry with sleep):_ Should get a coat like mine.

JOHN _(not amused)_ : It's bloody freezing.

SHERLOCK _(slightly more awake, with a yawn):_ Technically, no. We'll be fine.

_He turns onto his side again. There are sounds of sliding carriage doors being opened and banged shut again, and muffled calls somewhere outside. John sighs. Just as he closes his eyes in the  forlorn hope of getting some sleep himself, Sherlock’s voice comes out of the darkness again._

SHERLOCK _(no longer sounding sleepy at all):_ I made a mistake, John.

JOHN _(opening his eyes, alarmed)_ : What?

SHERLOCK: Years ago, when I first told you about Victor.

_John sits up with a frown._

JOHN: Listen, I had my reservations, and I still have some, but I’m here now. Do you really think I would be if I didn’t  - 

SHERLOCK _(half-turning towards his friend again, impatiently):_ Don't be so pompous, John. I wasn’t talking about you.

_A pause._

JOHN _(quietly):_ I see. Because Mycroft heard it, too, you mean.

SHERLOCK: Yes. And he was obviously listening very well indeed. I should have known that trouble would come of that, one day.

_He pulls his coat closer around himself, then turns back over, his face disappearing into shadow again._

JOHN: He said he knew it all anyway.

SHERLOCK: He was wrong. He knew it as a case. Nothing more.

_Another pause._

JOHN _(sensibly):_ Sherlock, not even you could possibly have foreseen -

SHERLOCK _(stubbornly):_ I should have known.

_John sits there for a moment, looking pensively into the darkness. Then suddenly, just as he is about to lower himself back onto his rustling makeshift mattress, he turns his face towards his friend again with a frown, as if he has heard or sensed that something is wrong. There obviously is, because next, he raises his hand as if to put it on Sherlock's shoulder._

SHERLOCK _(in a tight voice):_ Don't.

_John does it anyway, and mercifully, at that exact moment, the train starts moving again, quickly returning to its previous level of noise, drowning out everything else. Just before we fade to black, like the beginning of a pleasant dream, we can hear birdsong and the rustling of wind in trees gradually replacing the rumbling of the train, and those gentle sounds stay with us as we open again on the view of -_

_* * *_

**_A picture-perfect English landscape of rolling autumnal hills,_ ** _on an overcast, slightly foggy morning._ _Low dry stone walls and hedgerows divide the land into fields and meadows. A flock of sheep graze in one of them, and, making a bee-line straight for the low fence on the further side, Sherlock and John are walking across it through the dewy grass. They both look a bit rumpled and in need of a shave, but Sherlock at least seems in high spirits again, by the pace he is setting. They arrive at the fence. There is a stile built over it – one of the sort with two benches built on top of each other in the shape of a cross – and Sherlock, reaching it first, puts a hand on the top bench and vaults over it. John, after him, very sedately climbs up and down each step the way one is supposed to. Sherlock grins. John sees it and grimaces._

JOHN: I know you said low tech, but I wasn't expecting a cross-country hike before breakfast. We've been going for hours now. And don't tell me ghosts never need to eat.

SHERLOCK _(glancing at his watch):_ Two hours and fifty minutes. We're doing well. It's not far now.

JOHN _(peevishly):_ And you've been saying _that_ for two hours and fifty minutes, too, just to keep me going.

SHERLOCK: I told you, the timing matters, John. Come on.

_They walk on. The ground now rises towards a ridge, beyond which we can't see._

JOHN _(still slightly annoyed):_ If we're really almost there, don't you think it's time you told me what your plan is, and why Mycroft hasn't swooped down on us already in a helicopter? What's the time now?

SHERLOCK: Almost nine.

JOHN: Then Molly and Mike will soon be back at work, and those in charge of evaluating the data from our phones will realise that something's wrong.

SHERLOCK: Correct.

JOHN: And then they'll tell Mycroft.

SHERLOCK: No, they won't.

JOHN: Why not?

SHERLOCK: Because it's Wednesday.

JOHN _(sarcastically):_ And because it’s foggy and cold, and we’re in a leap year.

_Sherlock flashes him a brief grin._

SHERLOCK: Alright. The Joint Intelligence Committee sits every Wednesday morning between nine and eleven, and Mycroft may like it or not, he has to be there. The members, being who they are and discussing what they usually discuss, obviously can't take their phones or computers into those meetings. They leave them with the staff, and those poor devils have strict orders never to interrupt the sessions unless it is for the most urgent reasons of state security.

JOHN: And locating and apprehending Victor Trevor doesn't rank as such?

SHERLOCK: Use your brain, John. Mycroft cares enough about his reputation not to blazon abroad his brother's supposed terrorist affiliations, least of all to his fellow committee members and their subordinates. All they will have been told is that Mycroft is interested in our movements, and all they will realise around this time, as the data comes in, is that something may, just may, be wrong with the fact that we’re still both asleep in our friends’ homes. Whether or not any particularly bright individual among the staff actually hits on the idea that we and our phones have parted company, mere doubt is certainly not enough to warrant disrupting a discussion of weighty matters of state. Or what would it look like if they were to barge into that illustrious gathering on the grounds that they need Mycroft to reassess the probabilities of his little brother having finally found himself a girlfriend? ( _John grins.)_ So, you see, that's two hours of grace won in which Mycroft won't yet know that we've given him the slip. From around eleven onwards, when he comes out and goes online again, we'll be on a countdown. _He_ will see through it within seconds, he'll know we've gone to meet Victor, and it won't take him long to realise where exactly to look for us.

JOHN: How will he know then, if he didn't know it before?

_They are nearing the top of the ridge, walking more slowly now they're going steeply uphill._

SHERLOCK: Because there will be CCTV footage of the laundry van leaving the car-park at Barts, and that will ring a bell. The laundry van was his idea originally, you know, when we plotted how to get me out of Barts alive, a couple of years ago. And once they've worked out for him in what direction the van was heading when it left town, he'll remember the mail trains. He knows about those from the one time when I got caught, and he had to bail me out. _(He smiles briefly at the memory.)_ And then he'll know where to go.

JOHN: But you're still not going to tell me, are you?

SHERLOCK: You know, I'm actually surprised you haven't figured it out yet. We're going to the one house in this country that Mycroft can't just place under surveillance whenever he pleases. The one place where he'd have to ask the owners for permission first, and that would defeat the purpose, wouldn't it?

_At that moment, the sound of a church bell can be heard from beyond the ridge, striking four quarters of the hour, and then nine o'clock. Sherlock and John come out on top of the ridge, both of them slightly out of breath. They pause for a moment and look across the adjoining fields to the village beyond. It is a very small place, with hardly a dozen houses lining the main street, and some more scattered around a small church with a squat square tower. Towards the left, at the end of the village street, the last house stands a little apart from the rest, and it also stands out among the uniform grey of the other buildings by being painted in a warm dark red. Sherlock looks sideways at John, waiting for comprehension to dawn on his friend's face. A moment later, it does, and John’s jaw drops._

JOHN _(appalled):_ Are you out of your bloody _mind?_

_Sherlock smiles._

 

 **_A moment later,_ ** _Sherlock and John are descending the hill towards the village by a footpath along the edge of a field._

JOHN: Are you telling me that your brother does _not_ routinely monitor what's going on at your parents' house? Of all places?

SHERLOCK: Oh, he'd love to, but they won't let him. Way back when it first became apparent where Mycroft's career was heading, they had a bit of a disagreement about it, but it settled the matter once and for all. Mycroft would have turned their house into a fortress and made them prisoners in their own home for the sake of their safety, but they absolutely and categorically forbade him to do anything of the sort, and he's always respected that. He probably runs checks on new acquaintances of theirs – not that there are many, at their age – or on new people moving into the neighbourhood. But every time he brings up the question of their personal safety, they remain adamant that whatever will happen will happen, and they're not going to have their private life ruined by the fact that their son is constantly making himself hated by what he does for a living.

JOHN: That's very brave, I think.

SHERLOCK: And very, very useful right now.

_They continue walking in silence for a minute or two._

JOHN: You know, if Mycroft will know exactly where we are - doesn’t that mean we’re walking straight into a trap?

SHERLOCK: Someone is, at any rate.

JOHN: No, but really?

SHERLOCK: Don’t worry, John. Remember, the whole point of us missing most of our sleep and all of our breakfast was getting here _before_ him.

JOHN: Are you even sure that he'll come in person? 

SHERLOCK _(with a grin):_ Of course. He knows it takes a Holmes to beat a Holmes. _(In a different tone, ominously)_ Or he should know.

_He walks on, looking very content._

_* * *_


	6. The Showdown

**_Mr and Mrs Holmes’ house. The kitchen,_ ** _warmly lit, very cosy and both nicely reassuring and slightly absurd in its normality. Mrs Holmes, in an apron, is clearing the table of the remainders of a late breakfast. Mr Holmes is nowhere to be seen. Victor, wearing a camel-coloured woollen cardigan that looks several sizes too big for him over his freshly laundered black t-shirt, is sitting in the low armchair in the left hand corner of the room, by the sideboard. He looks in better health than last time we saw him, not quite as underfed any more, and no longer quite as jumpy either. He has rolled up his right sleeve, and John, who has pulled up a chair for himself from the kitchen table, is renewing the bandage on his arm. Sherlock is sitting on the edge of the table with a first aid kit open on his lap, looking on. Sherlock and John have apparently both had a shower and a shave, in addition to a late breakfast, and are both looking neat again - and, in John's case, a lot less grumpy than earlier on. Mrs Holmes passes behind her son with a stack of used plates in her hands and gives him a gentle little nudge with her elbow._

MRS HOLMES: Don't do that, please.

_Sherlock immediately slides down from his seat._

SHERLOCK: Sorry.

_John gets up, his task finished, relieves Sherlock of the first aid kit, repacks it neatly and zips it closed. Sherlock takes John's place in the chair next to Victor’s._

SHERLOCK _(to Victor):_ Right.

VICTOR: Yeah. What now?

_John walks over to the other side of the room, where Mrs Holmes has started filling the sink for the washing up. She gives him an enquiring and slightly worried look._

JOHN _(reassuringly):_ No, it's all well, Mrs Holmes. You took very good care of him. The signs of infection are gone, and there's really nothing left for me to do.  
  
MRS HOLMES _(relieved):_ Oh, I'm glad you approve. I know little enough about these things. Our handbooks are all out of date, and Tim thought it wouldn't be wise to look up anything about it on the internet right now. It's amazing how careful you have to be when you have a public enemy staying at your house. It does broaden one's horizon, to be sure. _(Lowering her voice)_ But I admit I found it hard to just sit there and watch him struggle through the first night, and not be allowed to get help if he got worse.  
  
JOHN _(raising his eyebrows):_ That bad?  
  
 _Mrs Holmes nods, grimacing sympathetically at the memory._  
  
MRS HOLMES: He was a trembling wreck when he got here, you know. Looked like something the cat had dragged in. We put him straight to bed. _(She smiles a little wistfully.)_ It's a long time since I sat at someone's bedside like that, shooing away bad dreams.  
  
JOHN: Fever?  
  
MRS HOLMES: Mmh. But it was down again by morning, and he slept peacefully most of that day. In fact, he's done little else ever since. Except eat like a wolf whenever there's food on the table. I'd forgotten that a bit, too, just how much hungry boys can eat.

_She glances affectionately at her son, then turns her attention to the dishes in the sink. John, as a matter of course, takes a tea towel from its hook on the wall to lend her a hand._

 

_At the other side of the room, Sherlock, leaning forward in his chair with his elbows on his knees, has been speaking to Victor all the while in a low voice. Now he leans back as if to give Victor time to digest what he's just heard. Victor is staring at him, lost for words. It takes him a considerable time to find his voice again, during which Sherlock regards him steadily and patiently._

VICTOR: You're not serious.

SHERLOCK: Yes, I am. Absolutely.

VICTOR: It’s just one of your bloody jokes, right?

SHERLOCK: Didn't hear me laugh, did you?

_Victor shakes his head.  
_

VICTOR: Listen, I know you can sell just about anything to anyone, but _that_ is completely impossible in so many ways.

SHERLOCK: Why? D'you think I’d suggest it if I didn’t think you could do it?

VICTOR: _I_ could, maybe. But why the hell would _they_ trust someone with a record like mine?

SHERLOCK _(with a wry grin):_ What, you mean a record of doing the wrong thing for the right reason? No problem. They’re world class in that field themselves.

VICTOR _(sarcastically):_ And loved and respected for it by everyone.

SHERLOCK _(with a shrug):_ Think of it as the lowest common denominator, if you find it so hard to see any others.

_Victor gives a snort._

VICTOR: Alright. Let’s assume for a moment that this is feasible - that I’d do it, and that they’d let me. If ever word got around of what’s become of me, I wouldn’t last a week. There are other people almost as bad as Arbo and Yevgeny out there behind those masks, you know, ones that I know and that know me. They won’t be exactly happy to hear what I’ve done.

SHERLOCK: They won’t hear of it. Not unless you yourself shout it from the rooftops. Furnishing someone with a new name and a nice, harmless new biography to go with it is child's play for my brother. I agree that it will be a necessity, with all that it entails. But I guarantee you that it will be absolutely watertight, as long as you play along.

_Victor looks unhappy._

SHERLOCK _(quietly):_ Look, you can’t possibly have thought that there wouldn’t be a price to pay for all this, one day. What we might still have time for is to negotiate the currency you will pay it in. You know the way in which my brother and his American friends will exact it from you. If you're content with that, say so, and I'll shut up.

VICTOR _(desperately):_ No, of course not. But it’s not as simple as that. This stuff has been my life for years now, and there's a lot that I'm not ashamed of, and neither you nor anyone else will ever make me see it that way.

SHERLOCK: What, the decent stuff? Kareem, the generous? That’s over anyway.

VICTOR: It was my life, Sherlock.

SHERLOCK: No. It was a Trojan horse, and you're inches away from a system crash. Time to debug, Victor.

VICTOR: You talk about changing sides like you’d talk about changing a shirt.

SHERLOCK: And that premise is all wrong.

VICTOR: What premise?

SHERLOCK: That you’ll be changing sides.

VICTOR: What? You’ve just told me to –

SHERLOCK _(mock-dramatically):_ \- to betray everything you believe in?  _(He rolls his eyes.)_ Well, no. All I’m suggesting is that you go back to doing what you do best, and do it for the reason why you used to love it in the first place. _(With a note of impatience in his voice)_ Just stop inflating it with all those high-riding notions of belief and purpose and the greater good of humankind. Look where it got you.

VICTOR: And you wouldn’t call that a betrayal?

SHERLOCK: I call it playing the game for the game’s own sake.

VICTOR _(after a moment, sarcastically):_ Well, that sounds snappy, at least. _(Serious again)_ No, but be honest, Sherlock. Don’t _you_ believe in the work you do? That there is a point in doing it, beyond getting the bills paid and the hours of your day filled?

SHERLOCK _(calmly):_ I do what I know I do best. I take pride in doing it well. It irks me when I fall short of my own standards, and I try to do better next time. That’s the essence of it. But I still do cases, Victor, not causes. Belief doesn’t come into it.

VICTOR _(drily):_ You used to be a much better liar.

SHERLOCK: And you used to be someone who wouldn't go back on his word.

VICTOR: What word?

SHERLOCK: “I fucked up royally, and if I could see a way to make it good, I’d do it.”

 

_At the other side of the room, Mrs Holmes and John have finished doing the dishes, and Mrs Holmes is putting them away. Then she returns to John, takes off her apron and hangs it on a hook next to the tea towels. They both glance _across at Sherlock and Victor in their corner, who have fallen silent.__

MRS HOLMES _(to John, quietly):_ Would you believe Tim and I never met him, never until now? I asked Sherlock so many times to invite him to stay, but he never would. _(With a sigh)_ Well, you know what he's like.

JOHN: Yeah. _(On consideration)_ Sometimes.  
  
MRS HOLMES: And then Victor dropped out and left, of course, and that was it. Never even heard his name mentioned again, though we certainly knew what _that_ meant. And then he turns up on our doorstep, just like that, fifteen years later, and with a story that made our hair stand on end when we heard it. _(She shakes her head in disbelief.)_

JOHN: So he told you who he was, and what he did?

MRS HOLMES: Oh yes. Could barely stop talking once he'd started. _(With a meaningful look at John)_ By the way, I'm glad you just said he “was”. 

_John automatically glances at Sherlock and Victor again, and we return to their side of the room. Victor is sitting hunched in his chair now, his face hidden in both hands, the very picture of plain honest misery. Sherlock, with his arm propped on the back of his chair and his head in his hand, is watching him thoughtfully. When Victor looks up again at last, his eyes are dry but red._

VICTOR _(with almost childlike frankness):_ I feel so sick right now.

SHERLOCK _(quietly):_ Nobody ever said that coming down from a high was fun.

VICTOR: No _… (Wryly)_ And I suppose not even you with all your eloquence could make it feel like that.

SHERLOCK _(almost gently):_ If I knew how, I would. If that's a comfort.

VICTOR _(with a very sad little smile):_ As a matter of fact, it is.

 _They fall silent again _for a long moment.__  
  
VICTOR: You know who I'm thinking of right now?  
  
SHERLOCK: Who?

VICTOR: Violet Westbury.

SHERLOCK _(raising his eyebrows):_ Oh _, _please, Victor.__ She never was your type to start with, and by now she's happily married anyway. Don't you think it's time you moved on?  
  
VICTOR _(not rising to the bait, dead serious):_ I'm not thinking about the pretty girl in the miniskirt. I'm thinking about the human being that you destroyed in order to save. _  
_

_Sherlock’s face falls._

VICTOR: I'd never have thought to find myself in the same boat one day.  
   
SHERLOCK _(after a moment, soberly)_ : I see your point. But she'd certainly object to your choice of words.  
  
VICTOR: How d’you know that? She left.  
  
SHERLOCK: I know it because she sends me a Christmas card every year to assure me that she's fine. Nice job, three kids, happy ever after. _(Seeing the surprise on Victor's face)_ Don't worry, you won't have to do that. I always find her cards slightly embarrassing. I don't think I need any more of that sort.

_Victor looks at Sherlock as if he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry._

SHERLOCK: And now you’re wondering whether the offer to hit me in the head still stands, am I right? The answer is yes, if that’s what it takes.

_He smiles tentatively. After a moment, Victor exhales audibly, and his face relaxes into the beginnings of the first true smile we have seen from him in fifteen years, when suddenly, apropos of nothing _\- at least nothing that we can see or hear - Sherlock raises his head and pricks up his ears. The smile on his face freezes, every muscle in his body suddenly tense. He glances at the clock on the wall. It is at ten past twelve._ At the other end of the room, John is immediately alert._

JOHN _:_ What is it? _  
_

 _Sherlock is out of his chair and on his feet in the blink of an eye._  
  
SHERLOCK _(to Victor, urgently):_ Ready, Victor?  
  
VICTOR _(confused):_ For what?

_With an almighty BANG, the door to the kitchen is thrown open, and with a rush of trampling feet, a group of armed men in the full black combat gear of the Specialist Firearms Command erupts into the room. Victor jumps up as well, but the officers have already taken up their obviously pre-arranged stations. Wordlessly and with perfectly dispassionate efficiency, they point their submachine guns at the three men - one at John, one at Victor, and two at Sherlock - and unlock them in a quick series of menacing metallic clicks. Sherlock’s eyes immediately fix on the open door. He allows himself a brief but very disdainful smile. Then, acknowledging that they are hopelessly outnumbered and outgunned, he raises his hands. Victor and John, taking their lead from him, do the same, Victor looking horrified, John looking angry._

MYCROFT _(into the silence, from the direction of the open door)_ : Well met, little brother.

_He holds Sherlock’s gaze for a moment, then strides into the room, looking very pleased with himself. Mrs Holmes, frozen to the spot, is staring at her older son, completely overwhelmed by such a ruthless invasion of her usually peaceful kitchen._

MYCROFT ( _to John, as he walks past him):_ Doctor Watson, any practical demonstration of loyalty on your part is strongly discouraged, no matter how well-intentioned.

_He nods to the officer covering John, who steps forward and starts patting John’s pockets for hidden weapons._

MYCROFT _(to his mother, curtly)_ : Where's dad?

MRS HOLMES _(automatically):_ Shopping.

MYCROFT: Good.

JOHN _(testily)_ : It's in my jacket, on a hook in the hall.

_Unimpressed, the officer completes his search, then takes up his station at John’s back, his gun levelled on him again. Ignoring his brother, Mycroft now walks forward to face Victor. Victor recoils as far as the cramped space allows, staring at Mycroft with naked panic in his eyes._

SHERLOCK: Alright, fine. Well done, Mycroft. We're all suitably impressed.

_Mycroft turns on his heel towards Sherlock, eyebrows raised._

SHERLOCK: Now stop the hocus-pocus, stand your men down, and let's have a civilised discussion instead of empty threats. _(He jerks his head at Victor.)_ Victor here has prepared a little speech for you, and I'm sure he'll deliver it better if he doesn't have to do it at gunpoint.

_Victor glances at Sherlock in surprise._

MYCROFT _(to Sherlock, smoothly):_ I don't know where you get that idea, but I assure you that I'm not here to listen to any speeches, however well prepared. _(Raising his chin, sharply)_ I'm here to execute a warrant of arrest and an extradition order. That is what I will do, and there is nothing that _you_ will be able to do to stop it. You got this far, you will get no further. Do I make myself clear?

_Mrs Holmes cringes at her older son's tone. John glances at her with concern._

SHERLOCK: Oh, don't get me wrong. I don't grudge you your little moment of glory.

MYCROFT _(smugly):_ But?

SHERLOCK: But when you're done gloating, take a look at the two of us, and tell me what you see. You see one man who holds all the cards, and another for whom the game is as good as over, don't you?

MYCROFT: That appears to be an accurate description.

SHERLOCK: But are you certain which of them you are?

_Mycroft's eyes narrow. He looks his brother up and down with close attention, and a smile begins to form on his lips._

MYCROFT: Oh, I knew we'd get to that point eventually. In fact, I've been looking forward to it. _(He crosses his arms.)_ Go on. Try and talk your way out of this, if you can. I might even find it amusing, for a while. I would suggest that you don't prolong it unnecessarily though. _(In a tone of mock-concern)_ Your arms must be hurting by now.

SHERLOCK: Oh, I'll be quick. I was just going to point out the one essential difference between your position and mine.

MYCROFT _(looking around pointedly at his armed men):_ I'd have thought it was rather obvious?

SHERLOCK: It is, isn't it? You're scared, and I'm not. So I will win, and you will lose. It’s as simple as that.

_For the briefest of moments, Mycroft seems uncertain how to respond. Then he regains his composure and, without haste, takes a couple of steps towards his brother until they are directly face to face, so close they’re almost touching.  
_

MYCROFT _(very softly)_ : Scared, am I?

SHERLOCK: Of course. I can see it in your eyes. I can feel it on my skin. _(He sniffs.)_ I can even smell it. Acceleration of the breathing rate, constriction of the peripheral blood vessels, increasing muscle tension. And getting worse by the minute.

_Mycroft starts circling Sherlock, very slowly, his eyes never leaving his brother’s face._

MYCROFT _(as softly as before)_ : What would I be afraid of?

_Sherlock resists the temptation to turn his head._

SHERLOCK: You know that as well as I do.   

MYCROFT: You tell me.

_He is almost outside Sherlock's field of vision now, standing at his brother's left shoulder._

SHERLOCK _(still looking straight ahead)_ : You’re afraid of misjudging the situation. Afraid that you already have. You’re afraid of what the Americans will do when they realise that they shouldn’t have left this in your hands. And, most of all, you're afraid of what may happen right now if any one of us makes one - false - move. _(Along with the last words, but still without lowering his hands, he has turned very slowly on the spot until he is face to face with Mycroft again. He smiles.)_ Fear is a very potent activator in some ways, but it does do strange things to that part of your brain that’s responsible for long-term planning. Which means that within the next five minutes, you will panic and make a big mistake that no demonstration of brute force will be able to repair. So you might as well spare yourself the humiliation and put an end to this ridiculous business right now.

_There is a silence while the room seems to collectively hold its breath. Then Mycroft's lips curl in a sneer. He straightens up, turns away from Sherlock, glances around at his men and nods towards Victor._

MYCROFT: Secure him.

_The officers jump to obey the order. The one who has been covering Victor grabs him by the arm, on the exact spot where his sleeve hides his bandaged burns, twists the arm behind Victor’s back and pushes him forward. Victor gives a little yelp of pain, doubles over to get away from the pressure, and ends up bent over the table, his forehead bumping against the table top, held down in a firm grip. Sherlock has instinctively made a little move forward, but has stopped himself again immediately, even before the officer who stands at his back shoves the muzzle of his gun into his ribs to remind him to keep still. Another one steps up to the table and puts handcuffs on Victor’s wrists, securing his hands behind his back. Then he and his colleague take him one by each shoulder and pull him upright again. Victor’s eyes search for Sherlock's, and find them. They have filled with tears, of pain or despair or both. He looks very small between his two massive guards. John’s eyes are flickering back and forth between Mycroft, Victor and the door, obviously considering the practical demonstration of loyalty he has been warned against earlier. Mrs Holmes stands utterly still, her mouth open in silent, disbelieving protest. Mycroft takes in the changed set-up with an approving look._

MYCROFT: Very good. _(To the officers)_ The same for my brother, please. Take them outside, put them in separate cars. I'll be with you in a moment.

_The officer still covering Sherlock lowers his weapon and puts his gloved hand on Sherlock's upper arm. And Mrs Holmes finally explodes in a magnificent rage. Completely heedless of the fact that there is a heavily armed man standing in each corner of the room, she advances on her older son like a fury, her eyes flashing, her teeth bared in a snarl._

MRS HOLMES _(very loudly, her voice ringing with righteous anger):_ Don't you dare! Don’t you _dare_ , Mycroft! _(She points a finger at Victor.)_ This young man, whatever he may have done, is a guest in my and your father's house, and I will be _damned_ before I let you take him away from here like a common criminal, and your own brother with him, for shame! _(She gestures around at the armed officers, beside herself with indignation.)_ Who do you think you are, marching in here with these ugly big men and their ugly black _things_ like you own the place, without even knocking on the door? _(Even louder)_ If you have a shred of decency left in you, you will tell them to get out of the house _now_ , or by God, I will put them out with my own hands!

_A ringing silence. Mycroft stands gaping at his mother, thunderstruck. The officers exchange uncertain looks. The one who was going to seize Sherlock almost furtively takes his hand off him again. For a seemingly endless while, Mrs Holmes keeps glaring at her older son, Mycroft stares helplessly back at her, and Sherlock is having difficulties suppressing a very fond smile. Then he slowly, inch by inch, lowers his hands. John, seeing it, follows his example, grimacing with the relief. None of the officers intervenes. At long last, Mycroft exhales sharply, turns his eyes away from his mother's flushed face and glances around at his men._

MYCROFT: Wait for me outside.

_The officers lower their weapons, and one after the other exit the room, all of them looking rather sheepish, until only one of those who were keeping hold of Victor remains. He glances enquiringly at Mycroft. Mycroft holds out his hand, receives the key to the handcuffs and pockets it. When the last of the officers has left the room, Mycroft turns abruptly towards his brother. As if on command, Sherlock immediately wipes the smile off his face._

MYCROFT: Whatever you're going to say now, it’s not going to be helpful.

SHERLOCK _(without the least hint of sarcasm):_ I know.

_Mycroft waits for a moment, regarding Sherlock with narrowed eyes, but when there is nothing more forthcoming, he sighs, pushes the chair Sherlock was sitting in earlier back into its place at the end of the table and waves Victor into it. Victor, moving a little clumsily with his hands still secured behind his back, obeys and sits down, very upright, still very tense. Sherlock takes a chair at right angles to Victor's, John the one closest to where he has been standing, at the other end of the table. Mycroft walks around the table and sits down opposite his brother._

MRS HOLMES _(calm again, except for a very bright red spot on each of her cheeks)_ : Now, that looks much better to me. I'll make tea.

_She proceeds to put the kettle on. Mycroft turns sideways towards Victor and folds his hands on top of the table._

MYCROFT: Well, Mr Trevor. I believe I was promised a speech. _(With an angry glance at Sherlock)_ And it had better be good, or I might just call them back in.

_Victor looks at Sherlock for support._

SHERLOCK _(to Victor)_ : It’s alright. I think you can cut out all the poetry about remorse and regret and seeing the error of your ways, and come straight to the point of what you’re offering him.

_Mycroft raises his eyebrows. Victor clears his throat._

VICTOR: I - I saw it. He killed Pavel. Yevgeny, I mean. And Sherlock said that Yevgeny was arrested, so if there’s going to be a trial, I can - I mean - _(He clears his throat again.)_ And if there’s going to be one about the CCTV thing, too, I can show you -

_He falters. Mycroft regards him in silence, without hostility, but determined not to make things easier for him either._

VICTOR: I’d need my laptop for that, though.

MYCROFT: You’re forgetting that we already have it. It was very conveniently left behind for us to pick up when you took to your heels in Kentish Town the other night. 

SHERLOCK _(impatiently)_ : Oh, don’t try and trick the poor boy. If it’s his, there's no way your people will have got past even the first encryption layer by now.

_Mycroft gives him an annoyed look but keeps a very eloquent silence. Victor looks hopeful again._

SHERLOCK: Go on, Victor.

VICTOR _(to Mycroft, very quietly):_ And there’s more on it than the CCTV stuff. You can have that, too. 

_He looks down, avoiding everyone’s eyes._

MYCROFT _(to Sherlock, after a moment):_ Well. That wasn't all that impressive.

SHERLOCK: It goes straight to the point.

MYCROFT: The point that he wants to turn witness for the prosecution, in exchange for a slightly reduced sentence and a passport with a new name on it once he's released?

SHERLOCK: No.

MYCROFT: Oh, good. Because it won't work that way. There will be no trial here, neither for murder nor for computer crimes. _(He nods towards Victor.)_ I've promised him to the Americans. He'll be on a plane by tonight. Yevgeny is already on the way.

_Victor raises his head and stares at Mycroft, then at Sherlock, and gulps._

SHERLOCK _(calmly):_ Cancel the plane. 

MYCROFT: You don't understand. I said I promised. And they won’t thank me for not honouring that promise.

SHERLOCK: Being who they are, they won’t thank you for honouring it, either. _(In a sudden burst of anger, very loudly)_ God, Mycroft, you cut a pitiful figure, you really do. I thought I was piling it on a bit when I said you were scared of them, but now I see it was an understatement, if anything. It's embarrassing, it really is - you of all people kowtowing to the Americans like that. Switch your brain back on, if you please. You don't need _me_ to teach you how to serve your own country best. _(Mycroft opens his mouth to protest, but Sherlock talks over him.)_ Look at what you'll gain if you keep him here, and weigh that against the literally nothing that you gain if you hand him over, and then keep telling me that he has to go!

MYCROFT _(coolly):_ And what exactly do I stand to gain by keeping him? 

SHERLOCK: He's Victor Trevor.

MYCROFT: I know. _Your_ old friend. What's in it for me?

SHERLOCK: Recruit him.

_Mycroft stares at Sherlock, completely taken aback. Victor glances furtively at Mycroft, holding his breath._

SHERLOCK: Experts like him aren't ten a penny. How many applicants do you get every year who can boast of both a decade and more of training with the world's leading IT security companies, _and_ of such an impressive amount of first-hand knowledge of how to blast it all to pieces again? You've seen his record, both the official and the other one. He always was one of the best in his field, always. Let him take that laptop of his to your friends from the GCHQ and show them what he can do. They will see it. And they'll be better judges of it than either you or me, when it comes to the details.

_Mycroft shakes his head._

SHERLOCK _(more quietly than before, but no less intently):_ You hate waste, just like I do – waste of time, waste of resources, waste of anything of value. And you should know, better than anyone else, the value that a single person's brain can constitute. Why let it rot in a prison somewhere in America when it can be of so much better use here at home? Look at him now. He means it, and he'll see it through.

_Mycroft glances at Victor, who sits up even straighter than before and bravely forces himself to meet Mycroft's eyes._

SHERLOCK: What are they going to say when they hear that you had the single most valuable asset to their work of the last years handed to you on a silver platter, and declined? Out of fear? Out of spite? Whatever it is that still makes you hesitate right now, it's miles below you, and you know it.

MYCROFT: Well – letting him turn informer is one thing. But recruiting him into our own ranks would be a bit of a stretch, don't you think?  
  
SHERLOCK _(with a shrug):_ Why? It’s by far the most practical solution. He'll need a job, you know, now that saving the world hasn't turned out to pay off all that well. And wouldn’t they prefer to be able to keep an eye on him and his doings on a daily basis, rather than having to worry constantly about him hooking up with the wrong crowd again? _(To Victor)_ Because, you know, you _can_ actually do worse than with the GCHQ bunch. _(To John)_ And I don't believe I just said that.

_John smiles. Mycroft is looking down at the table, pressing down hard on the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. There is a pause. Everyone’s eyes are on Mycroft. After a moment, he raises his head again._

MYCROFT _(to Sherlock):_ You have no idea, no idea at all, what a headache it's going to cause me to make that work.

SHERLOCK: Oh, come on. Be creative. _(He nods at Victor's arm.)_ You can tell what's under there, can't you? Nasty batch of second degree burns – infection – sepsis – pegged out somewhere in a ditch, nothing left for you to arrest but a dead body. _(He leans forward in his chair.)_ Kareem's dead, Mycroft. Might as well make it official. 

_Victor grimaces inadvertently. Mycroft makes a dismissive gesture with his hand._

MYCROFT: I’m not concerned with the technicalities. But I do wonder whether you realise what it means to ask me to hold my hand over the same person that, only an hour ago -

SHERLOCK: - you were about to throw to the wolves? Yes, I am. It’s part of why I’m doing it, in case you hadn’t noticed. Because, if you really find it so difficult, then woe betide all of us who simply try to do the right thing. _(Impatiently)_ What do you carry that stupid big umbrella for? Use it, for God’s sake! And don’t tell me that it isn’t raining.

_John suppresses another smile. Victor, completely bewildered, glances out of the window to check what Sherlock is talking about, and is none the wiser. Mycroft leans back in his chair and folds his arms, still unconvinced. Then he abruptly turns to face Victor. Victor gives a little start._

MYCROFT: You're very quiet. What do you say to all of this? Is this just one of my brother’s more original little ideas, or are _you_ asking me for a second chance, too? _  
_

_Victor takes a deep breath._

VICTOR: Yes, sir, I am. _(A little stiffly)_ And I'd be more grateful for it than words can express.

_Meanwhile, Mrs Holmes in the background has placed four cups, the teapot, milk and sugar on a large tray, which she now picks up from the worktop and walks over to the table with, looking very pleased._

MRS HOLMES: And wasn't that a beautiful way of saying it.

_She puts the tray down on the table._

MRS HOLMES _(nodding at Victor but addressing Mycroft)_ : And how is he going to drink that, now?  
  
 _Mycroft gives her an exasperated look, hesitates for a moment, but then takes the key to the handcuffs out of his pocket and pushes it across the table at Sherlock. For a moment, Sherlock looks as if he is going to push it right back, but then he picks it up, gets to his feet and takes Victor's handcuffs off. Victor sighs with relief and gives Sherlock a nod of thanks._

MYCROFT _(to Sherlock)_ : He’ll always be a risk.

SHERLOCK: Like every human being.

_There is another silence, in which Mycroft sits staring at the tea set in front of him as if it is a miniature alien spaceship that has just landed on his parents’ kitchen table. Then rather suddenly he, too, stands up and squares his shoulders._

MYCROFT: Well, I believe there's a lot of work waiting to be done. _(With an expectant look at Victor)_ Better get started.

_He lets his eyes travel pointedly towards the door. Victor looks at him uneasily, then slowly gets to his feet, more than a little overwhelmed by the sudden turn of events._

VICTOR _(to Sherlock)_ : So - where am I going now?

SHERLOCK: To Cheltenham, eventually.

VICTOR: Will I see you there?

SHERLOCK: I don’t think so. _(He smiles a little wistfully.)_ Old friends don’t go well with new identities, I’m afraid.

_Victor nods unhappily._

SHERLOCK: You’ll like it there, though. Very pretty place. Good cycling in the area, too. You’ll be fine, once you’ve settled in. Don’t mind _him. (He glances at Mycroft.)_ I know it won’t be fun, but I spent my entire childhood with him breathing down my neck, and look, I survived.

_Mycroft rolls his eyes._

SHERLOCK _(to Victor):_ Just see to it that you keep up your end of the bargain, if only for my sake. Because if you don't, I _will_ be taken to one of those cosy basement rooms that don't really exist, by some charming people that don’t really exist either, and they _will_ take me to pieces in the most painful way human ingenuity can contrive, just because they finally can. _(Jerking his head at Mycroft)_ He's been waiting for an excuse to do that for years. Don't be the one that gives it to him.

VICTOR _(contritely):_ Looks like I almost was.

_Mycroft opens his mouth, and then, exercising monumental self-restraint, closes it again._

VICTOR _(to Sherlock, serious again)_ : I – I let you down once, and I never even knew how badly, until – _(He glances at Mrs Holmes, and thinks better of finishing that sentence. Firmly)_ Not doing it again.

SHERLOCK: Good. Now be off.

_Victor nods, then turns to Mrs Holmes._

VICTOR: Thank you, Mrs Holmes. For everything. I – I feel like a human being again.

_Mrs Holmes puts both her hands on his shoulders and smiles warmly._

MRS HOLMES: Well, that makes me glad. I'd have loved to have you here longer. Take care, now.

_She tightens her hold for a moment, then releases him._

VICTOR: Oh, and -

_He makes a move as if to take off the cardigan he is wearing, but Mrs Holmes puts out her hand to stop him._

MRS HOLMES: Oh, no. Keep it, please. He's got far too many of those anyway. 

_Victor nods again, and is in the act of turning towards the door when John rises from his chair, too, steps forward and holds out his hand. Victor looks at him, faintly surprised._

JOHN: Well – _(He clears his throat.)_ Take care.

VICTOR _(taking his hand)_ : You, too.

_They look at each other for a long moment, then Victor lets go, turns away and walks out of the kitchen. Mycroft follows him. When he passes Sherlock on his way out, he hesitates, then turns to face his brother once more._

MYCROFT: When will you finally lose that strange urge of yours to make other people happy at the highest possible cost to yourself? 

SHERLOCK: As long as you want me to, never.

MRS HOLMES _(frostily):_ And you would do well to recognise it for what it is, Mycroft Holmes.

_Mycroft juts out his chin, sniffs audibly, and exits the room. The remaining three watch him out in silence, until they hear the sounds of car doors opening and closing again outside, engines being started and the vehicles moving away down the road. Then Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment. He is suddenly looking very pale. His hands at his sides curl into fists, and the muscles in his face are working. He blinks a couple of times._

JOHN _(in a tone of concern):_ You OK?

SHERLOCK _(in a tense voice)_ : Yeah. No. _(He exhales shakily.)_ Caught a cold on the journey, I think. _(His teeth have actually started chattering.)_ Sorry.

_He turns away abruptly and hurries out of the kitchen. For a moment, John seems in two minds about following him, but when he looks across at Mrs Holmes, she is shaking her head. John sighs._

**_Ten minutes later_ ** _by the clock on the wall, there is a steaming pot on the hob, and Mrs Holmes is busily pottering around the kitchen making lunch, while John is standing at the worktop chopping carrots. There is a cheerful knock on the door, and Mr Holmes, in a warm woollen jacket, scarf and cloth cap, enters the kitchen, carrying several bulging plastic bags in each hand.  
_

MR HOLMES: Here we are. Sorry that took so long.

_He gives his wife an affectionate peck on the cheek, heaves his bags up onto the kitchen table and points over his shoulder back towards the living room, looking mildly puzzled._

MR HOLMES: How come there's Sherlock sleeping on the sofa?

MRS HOLMES: Oh. He said he might be catching a cold. _(She smiles.)_ Nothing serious, dear.

_Mr Holmes nods a little absently, then turns to John, smiles at him warmly and offers him his hand. John takes it, smiling back._

MR HOLMES: John. Good to see you. Ah, how nice to have the place livened up a bit, for a change. _(Beaming at his wife)_ Don't tell me Mycroft's coming for lunch, too?

_John and Mrs Holmes exchange a look._

MRS HOLMES _(a little sadly)_ : No, dear. Not today. 

 

* * *


	7. Epilogue: Homeward Bound

**_The interior of a train - a regular passenger train this time - rumbling south through the autumnal Midlands,_ ** _a day or two later. John and Sherlock are sitting at a window, facing each other, John with his arms folded, looking out thoughtfully at the landscape, Sherlock huddled into his coat, his eyes on a phone in his hand. He seems to be scrolling through a long list of messages._

SHERLOCK: So, John. What do we do when we get back to town? Serial break-ins in Kensington? Fraudulent antique dealers in Notting Hill? Oh, _please._ _(He pulls a face.)_ Romeo and Juliet are inviting us to their wedding. _(He scrolls on.)_ Ah, this sounds better: Suspicious death by fire of a building company boss in Norwood?

JOHN _(with a sigh):_ Good God. None of those, please. I think I need a holiday.

SHERLOCK _(looking up):_ What? We've just had one.

JOHN: Yeah, right. Though I'm not sure there was a need to invite your brother and his friends along as well. Kind of detracted a bit from the R&R aspect of the whole enterprise.

SHERLOCK _(shifting into a more comfortable position):_ But look, there are even actual seats on the train back.

JOHN _(sarcastically):_ Not to mention the proper breakfast we had every single morning.

 _SHERLOCK (sternly):_ John Watson, you're not going to complain about my mother's cooking.

JOHN _(in a mock-appeasing tone):_ Oh, never. I’ll just complain that not all kinds of genius are hereditary then.

SHERLOCK _(with a shrug):_ There’s a reason why we live upstairs of Mrs Hudson, you know.

JOHN: Yeah, I forgot. _(He nods at the phone in Sherlock's hand.)_ Where did that phone come from, by the way?

SHERLOCK: My dad's. Never uses it anyway. Too fiddly for his arthritic fingers, he says. ( _John nods understandingly.)_ But - _(With a little flourish, he switches the phone off and slips it back into the inner pocket of his coat.)_ \- maybe you're right.

JOHN: About what?

SHERLOCK: About the holiday. Sounds good, actually. _(He stifles a yawn.)_ Leave our own phones with Molly and Mike for a couple more days, light a fire, put up our feet, ignore the bell -

JOHN _(tentatively):_ Play a bit of music?

SHERLOCK: Certainly. And write an early Christmas card to Violet Westbury.

JOHN: What? Why?

SHERLOCK: I need to tell her that we're even now.

JOHN: That you're _what?_

SHERLOCK: Even. It's rankled with me for fifteen years that a girl with too much make-up and a Geordie accent could do something that I couldn't, you know.

JOHN _(drily):_ So that's all we've been doing this past week, right? Getting even with Violet Westbury?

SHERLOCK _(straight-faced):_ Of course. What else?

_John rolls his eyes in exasperation and turns his face back towards the window, but then can't help glancing at Sherlock again, who has obviously been waiting for it with an expression of badly suppressed amusement on his face. They both begin to laugh, and we fade to black._

 

_* * *  
_

THE END

December 2014

**Author's Note:**

> I, too, am more grateful than words can express - to my fantastic beta reader Cooklet, who has stuck with me and this story for weeks throughout November and December 2014, with everything from language help and medical advice to tweaking and clarifying major plot points. Without her support and encouragement, I'm sure I couldn't have pulled off saving Victor in publishable form, just like Sherlock couldn't have done it without John. :-)
> 
> A big thankyou also to Silverblaze, because if she hadn't made me include Mycroft in the prequel, this whole story would never have happened. I knew that Mycroft's presence in frame narrative of "The Three Students" would come back to bite Sherlock sooner or later - but I didn't know just how badly, and how much fun it would be to write!


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